


The Baker Street Consultants

by FourCornersHolmes



Series: The Consultants [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - James Bond Fusion, Angst and Fluff and Smut, BAMF Greg Lestrade, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sebastian Moran, Captain John Watson, Crossover Pairings, Dammit Jim, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Jim Moriarty Has a Twin, Jim Moriarty is Victor Trevor, Jim Moriarty is a Brat, Jim Moriarty is a Little Shit, Jim is a Little Shit, John Watson is a Saint, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Bastard, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Mycroft's Meddling, Seb and John babysit Sheriarty, Sebastian Moran is a fucking SAINT, Sheriarty - Freeform, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 03:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 70,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19286881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/FourCornersHolmes
Summary: What if Jim Moriarty was more than just a clever, dangerous criminal mastermind? What if Sherlock Holmes was more than just a know-it-all consulting detective? This is a story of love, loss, reunion, family, reconciliation, and luck.





	1. What Do You Know?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets Jim. Things are not as they seem. Who exactly, is Jim From IT? What's his history? His secrets? And who is he to Sherlock Holmes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This misguided adventure is the result of an idea D and I had ages ago, a bit of a what-if scenario. I can't remember all of the details, but this is where it got us. Please enjoy it!

* * *

* * *

There was something about Molly Hooper’s new boyfriend that itched at Sherlock Holmes the first time they met properly. The first glance had him doing a bit of a double-take, for he could have sworn the dark-haired man who came into the chemistry lab at Saint Bart’s was his old ex-boyfriend from Uni. Sherlock registered him first, height, build, hair and eye-color alike, clothing-style and personality. Everything about him was disseminated and processed in seconds.

 

The stocky, dark-haired bloke coming into the lab looked just like Victor Trevor! This fellow, handsome and a little clumsy, was about John Watson’s height but not as stocky as the veteran, trim and fit in the right ways, with tousled dark hair and the softest brown eyes he’d ever seen in a human. There was a glint to them that spoke of something dark. He was clean-shaven, and it gave him a boyish, almost innocent air. It was clear that he had the same problem when he caught sight of Sherlock, and he wondered if they wore the same expression. Nothing was said, but if Sherlock’s heart stopped for a minute before it plunged straight to his feet, who would know any better?

“Oh, Jim! Hi!” Molly broke the moment as she caught sight of the newcomer, “Come in!” He had to bite back his initial reaction when Molly addressed the man as Jim and swallow a sting of bitterness. Oh, just another look-alike to Victor Trevor, then.

“Oh, are you sure? You’re not busy?”

“No, no! Come in! I want you to meet a friend of mine!” Molly just beamed, “This is Sherlock Holmes! I’ve told you all about him!” Molly put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, Sherlock watched Jim stiffen before his expression smoothed into something friendly and neutral. Sherlock did not miss that brief moment of emotion, but it passed as quickly as it came.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr Holmes. I’m a bit of a fan, see?” Jim said cheerfully, his accent was almost jarring. It wasn’t his native accent, Sherlock was certain of that much.

“Molly’s told me all about you and I’ve been dying to meet you myself!”

“Mm.” He grunted, far more interested in his work since clearly Jim was no one he was interested in. Which was very much a lie, and he knew it.

In a fit of petulance, Sherlock not-so-quietly declared that Jim was gay. Bisexual, but…semantics. Molly was devastated, of course, and John was predictably exasperated, but Jim didn’t seem to mind the petulant outing at all.

“Holmes! Jesus Christ! Behave yourself for once!” John snapped.

“Oh, sorry. I mean…hi.” Not meaning a single word of it.

“That’s fine! Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, I was just looking for Molly.” Jim offered a sweet smile, an edge of the dangerous to it. “But it was lovely to see you again, Sherlock!” As if they had met before, as if they were _friends_.

“Yeah.”

 “Sherlock!” John snapped, irritated with his behaviour not just today but over the past week.

“See you later, Billy!” Jim said cheerfully as he left, winking at Sherlock. “Call me!” Sherlock froze at the nickname he hadn’t heard in nearly ten years. Why had Jim called him that? There was no _way_ he could have possibly known! Only one person had ever called him “Billy” besides his parents: Victor Trevor, his ex-boyfriend. 

 

“He’s not gay.” Molly huffed once the door had closed behind Jim. “He’s not.”

“With that level of personal grooming?” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Please.”

“I’m sorry, what are we talking about?”

“Molly’s ex-boyfriend Jim.”

“He’s _not_ my ex-boyfriend!” Molly snapped, but her blush didn’t seem dark enough to be anger. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“What makes you think he’s gay, then?” John inquired in that exasperated tone of voice that indicated his patience was worn a bit thin, proceed with caution.

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes, it was hard not to.” John rolled his eyes.

“He’s gay. His grooming habits are atrocious!”

“Because he puts a bit of product in his hair?” John was not impressed. “I put product in my hair.”

“You _wash_ your hair. Did recently, too. There’s a difference.”

“The Met, yesterday. Been a couple days, Holmes, I won’t apologise for maintaining good hygiene.” John gave him a stern look.

“See?” As if that answered everything, “No-no – tinted eyelashes; clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines; those tired clubber’s eyes. Then there’s his underwear.”

“His underwear?”

“Visible above the waistline – very visible; very particular brand.”

“Okay, so he shows off his underwear? Who cares?”

“That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here.” Sherlock waved the little piece of cardstock at them. John reached for it, he handed it over. A business card, with Jim’s name and phone number printed on it. On the other side, in rather lovely (and suspiciously familiar) handwriting, was a little note “Call Me!”.

“Huh.” John raised an eyebrow and passed it to Molly before it got back to him, “That’s pretty brazen.”

“See, Molly?”

“Ugh! Fine, I’ll think about it.” Molly made a face, “But I really do like him, Sherlock. He’s...nice.”

“You can do so much better, Molly. Find someone to take care of you, smart enough to keep you interested.”

“Yeah, let me know if you find anyone.” Molly rolled her eyes, “I’ll leave you to your puzzles. Don’t get anyone killed, Sherlock!”

“I really do try. You can’t blame me for the last one.” Sherlock watched the sweet pathologist leave the lab. Privately, he thought John and Molly might be good together. He counted backward in his head until John started laying into him about his behaviour and just sat quietly while John ranted. He just knew that Molly would get her heart broken if she tried to make things work out with Jim, and that wouldn’t be good for anyone.

 

Sherlock knew a bit about heartbreak, although he was fairly certain he had his interfering older brother to blame for that. He couldn’t prove it, but there were so many factors surrounding the disappearance and death of Victor Trevor that just didn’t fit together properly. It was one crime he just couldn’t solve, and it gnawed at his conscience that he had failed a loved one so spectacularly.

 

After the minor incident with Molly and Jim, they got back to work on the case at hand, the mystery of Carl Powers’ missing shoes.

“Shoes are about twenty-two years old, in rather good shape considering.” John studied one of the shoes closely, making a few observations of his own, “But some of the evidence on them is recent.”

“Such as?”

“The mud, for one. The topmost layers. The London mud, that’s about a month old.”

“And the shoelaces.” Sherlock just nodded. John wasn’t quite as clever as himself, but he was observant enough and rather useful in his own ways.

“There’s evidence of a toxin that shouldn’t be traceable this many years after the fact.”

“What’d you say the toxin on the shoelaces was? Or did you say?”

“Uh, it was...botulinum toxin. Clostridium botulinum, it’s one of the deadliest poisons on the planet.” Sherlock consulted his notes. “The boy suffered from eczema. It’d be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns.”

“Which means what then?”

“Carl Powers didn’t die of natural causes, he was murdered.” Sherlock closed his eyes, thinking it over. “The traces found on the shoelaces are recent, far too recent to align with the timeline of the murder.”

“Carl Powers died in 1989, but the toxin was recently introduced.”

“Precisely. Someone _wanted_ me to reach that conclusion about the shoes.”

“The killer?”

“Most likely.” He drummed his fingers on the worktop, “Which means, whoever was behind Carl Powers twenty-one years ago is behind all of these bomb-threats and puzzles.”

“Well, clearly. Or we wouldn’t have found those shoes in our bloody _basement_ after some maniac blew up the building across the street!” John gave him a look, “Honestly, Sherlock, he gave you his bleeding phone number!”

“He did?” He tilted his head a bit. John just picked up the business card and handed it to him.

“Just _call_ him, Sherlock.”

“Why?”

“Look, I’m not half as smart as you are, and that’s fine, but I’m _not_ stupid and I’m sure not blind.” John leaned over him a bit. “You recognized him when he walked in, but you thought you were wrong about who he was and went back to being your usual mean self. But you _knew_ he wasn’t exactly who he said he was.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sherlock, I’ve lived with you for two months, I’ve learned a few things about you.” John studied him, “Who does Jim remind you of? Why is he so important to you?”

“It’s not important.”

“Yes, it is.” John sighed, “Sherlock, who is he to you? Who does he remind you of?”

“I had a … a boyfriend in Uni, his name was Victor. He died ten years ago in an accident, that’s what they said it was.”

“But you knew better?”

“Too many details. Too many … flags.” Sherlock looked at the shoes sitting nearby his station, at the card John had handed him, that Jim had left for him. “I was … heartbroken, I was absolutely devastated. The one person in the world who had never judged me, had never asked me to change who I was to fit some … preconceived notion of what I _should_ be like, who had loved me just as  I was, was … gone. Dead. I couldn’t even see the body, they said it wasn’t fit to be viewed.”

“But?”

“But then they had an open-casket funeral for him. I went to it, of course, and spoke before friends and family and absolute strangers who had no idea who I was or cared, who _judged_ me because of who I had loved.” Sherlock turned the card over between his fingers, “And when I looked into that casket, I just … knew.”

“You knew it wasn’t Victor?”

“I don’t think it _was_. See, I knew every inch of Victor, every scar, birthmark, and freckle. Even a perfect doppelganger isn’t going to look just exactly like the person they’re imitating or look like.”

“And when you saw Jim, you thought it was Victor.” It wasn’t a question, and there was absolutely no judgment in John’s voice, there hadn’t been at all as they discussed something Sherlock hadn’t actually brought up in conversation in a decade.

“But I was wrong, like every other time I’ve seen someone with Victor’s face. It’s _never_ him.”

“Sherlock.” John touched him on the shoulder and he looked up to see his partner holding out his phone. “Call him.”

“Why?”

“Send him a text, or an email if you want to, but just tell him we figured out the shoes so we can save that poor woman.”

“Why do you care so much?”

“I’m a _doctor_ , it’s my job to care.” John picked up his coat as he headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” He asked curiously.

“Home. Might as well get some sleep while I can.” His flat-mate looked … well, tired was a good word for it. “Good luck with those shoes.” Then John was gone, the door closing with a thud behind him. Sherlock twirled the card between his fingers for a while, studying the handwriting and the note. Finally, he decided to call the number left for him. Sherlock carefully dialled the number left for him and waited for it to ring through, trying to talk himself out of hanging up before Jim could pick up. 

_“Hello, you handsome devil. I was hoping you might call me back.”_ Christ, it didn’t sound like Jim at all! It sounded like … Victor! Sherlock swallowed hard and reminded himself that this was business, lives were at stake here. And he had a time-limit.

_“Hello, Jim. I think I have the answer to your little puzzle.”_ He laid out everything he had on the shoes, all the while fighting to maintain his composure.

_“I assume you wanted me to reach that conclusion regarding the toxin. Was I right?”_

_“Spot on, Mr Holmes. I’m impressed. What else?”_

_“Well, the records were obviously tampered with, the killer would have had some degree of pull where it mattered. Not that Clostridium botulinum would have come up in an autopsy, it’s not what they were looking for. But the blood-work would have shown an unusual volume in his system. It was ruled an accident, not murder even though he was clearly murdered and that by slow poisoning.”_ Sherlock frowned, _“Why did you keep the shoes?”_

_“I thought they might be useful.”_

_“You collect trophies?”_

_“No, not necessarily.”_

_“You’re not like any criminal I’ve had a thing to do with, Jim.”_ Sherlock leaned against the bench, almost relaxed, he was kind of enjoying this, _“Puzzle solved this round?”_

_“Well done, Mr Holmes, you’ve solved it neat. Call up your little pet inspector at The Met and have them go save that poor woman. I’ll be in touch. Catch you later!”_

A click signaled that the call had ended and Sherlock quickly texted Lestrade to let them know it was okay to move ahead with their next operation. He was going home. Letting Molly know he’d solved the latest puzzle and the proper authorities had been notified, he went home and waited for the next puzzle.

 

After solving the mystery of the shoelaces, Sherlock found himself solving a successive chain of intriguing puzzles and rescuing unwitting hostages as he raced a dangerous clock. It all got a little too close to home on April Fool’s Day, when John went missing. Sherlock went into action. Whoever had John knew about the bombings, if that text message from a blocked number was any indication. He arranged to meet in Camden at midnight in an exchange of resources: John Watson for the stolen plans.

* * *

* * *


	2. Methodical Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great Game ends a bit differently. John isn't just a fawning side-kick, he can handle himself when called for, and he can be...forceful if pressed. And he's had quite enough of people underestimating him and treating him like an idiot.

* * *

* * *

Waking up in a dark room with a splitting headache was definitely not John Watson’s idea of a good night. He was somewhere near a pool, judging by the smell of chlorine and pool chemicals. Great. Just fucking great. He remembered being on Baker Street, just outside the flat, but absolutely _nothing_ after someone came at him from behind with a needle. He was tied up, light-headed, and...well, that was definitely not his coat. John knew the weight of a bomb-vest from training, and leaned his head back against the shelf behind him, groaning. He couldn’t move his arms, his shoulder was starting to hurt, and his legs felt a little numb. Never mind his head, blurry vision, dry mouth, and…oh, lovely. Gagged. Typical.

 

Whose special brand of numbskull thugs had pulled him from Baker Street? He had words for that moron, strong words. Especially if it was the particularly awful moron who had been teasing Sherlock for the past five days and putting people’s lives in danger for the sake of a stupid little game. What had he said about more victims? With John’s luck, _he_ was probably the next victim. And why was it always him getting kidnapped? Leaning his head back, John wondered if anyone had missed him yet or if Sherlock even knew he was gone. Probably _not_ , knowing Sherlock. He was so fixated on figuring out the bomber’s puzzles nothing else mattered. If he got out of this alive, Sherlock was a dead man.

 

He tested his restraints and groaned. Handcuffs? _Really?_ No originality, none at all. Before he could bother figuring out what they’d tied his feet with, John heard footsteps outside his cramped prison. A door opened nearby with an awful creaking, grating sound, scraping against the textured floor, which was rather damp. John squeezed his eyes shut and groaned again.

“John? Oh, I _told_ them to be careful! Bloody idiots _never_ listen!” That was…was that…? John’s brain scrambled to catch up to what he was hearing. He knew that voice. Oh god he _knew_ that voice! He heard the jangle of keys and a racheting click. Then the handcuffs were gone, his feet were free, and the gag came off.

“Jesus, what did they _do_ to you?”

“Seb?” He coughed, squinting. He’d be terribly mistaken if he didn’t recognize his old Army commander, Sebastian Moran.  Despite the seriousness of his current situation and the very real threat of serious bodily harm, John smiled.

“Heya, Jack.”

“Oh, you sly fox!” He chuckled, leaning his head back as he rubbed his chaffed wrists. “No handcuffs next time.”

“Sorry about that.”

“And what’s _this_ for?” He patted the vest under the coat that definitely wasn’t his, “Not the real deal, is it?”

“Eh.” A cringe, a grimace. He sighed.

“Who’s the mad one, Seb?”

“Sorry.”

“EOD wasn’t _really_ my thing, y’know?” He unzipped the jacket and got a look at the mess, “Oh, one of _these_. You couldn’t do better than this? Pfft.” He snickered, looking at Moran. Fiddling with a couple of the wires, he spent ten minutes working on the vest. A few sharp tugs with a multi-tool Moran had on his belt and everything went quiet.

“Who said EOD wasn’t your thing?” Moran smiled and handed him gaffers tape. He taped up the wires and no one was the wiser. Well. There.

“So, you’re the one after Sherlock Holmes?”

“Fascinating bloke, ain’t he?” Moran watched him carefully. “Nah. My boss is the one interested, not me.”

“Run. Tell him to _run_.” John muttered, “Don’t even _touch_ Sherlock Holmes. He’s out of your boss’s league, I guarantee, and I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

“Aww. You’re no fun!”

“I’m the sensible one, remember?” He tried to stand up, but his knees buckled, a nasty ache in his left knee. “Damn it.”

“Didn’t get the credit you deserved for that, did you?” Moran caught him under the arm, “Pity, that.”

“Eh. You know me, good at scraping by on nothing.” He looked around, “Where the hell are we?”

“Camden.” Moran grinned, “Just waiting for the signal now.”

John coughed, reaching for his shoulder, “The sooner you get me out of this vest, the better.”

“Shoulder acting up?”

“Just a bit.”

“Sorry about that.” Moran tucked an earpiece into his left ear, “That’s for you, I’ve got another one.”

“Any more of you out there?”

“Nope. Me and a couple of laser-pointers.”

“Yeah, like _that’s_ going to fool Sherlock Holmes?” John rolled his eyes, but didn’t have a chance to say anything else as the door opened again. This time, it was the man behind the string of clues and bomb-threats. The man behind the shoes discovered in the basement of 221B four days ago, the death of twelve civilians in a block of flats after one of the hostages was killed.

 

John recognized him in a heartbeat and drew a sharp breath. He would be damned if that wasn’t Jim. That was Molly Hooper’s boyfriend! Hell, he’d met the man just four days ago at Saint Bart’s! It was him? Well, that was interesting. Jim looked at John and smiled, an awful, cruel smile that made John feel just a bit sick.

“Well, well. The great John Watson. Not much to look at, are you? This is fun! A sweet little bonus!” He snickered, “Heard you gave my boys a bit of a rough time when they picked you up, eh?” John just glared at him. The flamboyant madman wasn’t bothered by John’s silence.

“Might’ve bloodied French’s nose, if he didn’t break the idiot’s jaw.” Moran dictated the injuries John had inflicted on his assailants before he was knocked unconscious.

“Got a violent streak to you, then? I like that.” Jim chuckled and studied John. 

“Jim Moriarty. Hi!” John tilted his head as he looked more closely at the man. This was the man holding Jefferson Hope's leash? The man he wouldn't name until he lay dying? Not much to really look at, was he? But it was the unassuming ones you had to worry about, wasn't it?

“Jim? Jim from the hospital?”

“Yeah, I remember you.” He coughed, “Funny, you didn’t look at me twice the other day, and yet…here we are.”

“Oh, I did my research after our little meeting, Doctor.” Moriarty grinned at him as he stepped into John’s space and reached out to touch him, “Not that he’ll ever admit it, but I think our dear Sherlock has a little pressure-point in you, love. Ah, be still.”

“What do you think you know about us?” He spat. As if waiting for an excuse to show off, Moriarty laid out everything his people had dragged up on John and Sherlock.

“It’s always the unassuming ones you have to worry about, isn’t it?” Moriarty giggled as he finished monologuing. “Who’d ever expect quiet little Jim from IT to be a big bad criminal mastermind?”

“I know who you are.” John muttered, looking over at Moran for a minute. It wasn’t to hold him back from hurting Moriarty so much as it was to keep him keeling over in a faint that Moran was holding him.

“Oh, do you?” A feral smile, confident that he really didn’t know and was fibbing to gain time.

“I’m not sure what possessed me to keep this, but I found this in one of Sherlock’s books.” John reached into his back pocket and retrieved a photograph he’d discovered a few days before, shortly after the encounter at Bart’s. The man in the picture didn’t look much like the mastermind grinning at John right now, but it was clearly the same person.

“What is that?”

“Do you recognize this man?” He held out the picture to Moriarty.

“Where did you get this picture?” Moriarty looked at the picture and then at John. “How did you get this picture?”

“I told you. I found it one of Sherlock’s books.” John was surprised he was being so bold. “I asked him who the man in the picture was.” He remembered finding Sherlock staring at the picture that same night, indescribably sad. Asking who it was got him a hell of a story and permission to keep the picture if he wanted. He hadn’t kept it expecting to use it against someone like Jim Moriarty, but there it was.

“Did he tell you?”

“Yes.”

“Did he tell you the truth?”

“Everything.” John felt Moran’s grip tighten as he swayed.

“John.” Moran murmured, “Calm down.”

“Shut up, Seb.” He snapped and stepped away from Moran until he was chest-to-chest with Moriarty. “I’ve frankly had quite enough of pompous know-it-alls flaunting your greatness and putting down everyone else because we’re hardly on your level and how dare we sully your presence with our filth and ignorance!”

“Tsk. Empty threats are no good to anyone, Doctor Watson.”

“Did I say they were empty threats?” John snarled. “No, you listen to me, you mad bastard! And you will listen or so help me god I will end you. Sherlock Holmes is my friend, one of the only friends I’ve got, and I will do anything to protect him! Kill for him if need be!”

“Oh, that was you behind Hope’s shooting! I should have known!” Brown eyes glittered, “Sebby said he knew the gunman who killed Jefferson Hope!”

“And if you think you can just walk out there, or make me walk out there and parrot your words, and he won’t be just absolutely fucking heartbroken because he recognized his old boyfriend in a psycho’s face, you’re sick. Absolutely sick.”

“John. Take it easy.”

“No! Stop it! Both of you just stop it!” He looked from Moran to Moriarty, who wore a rather stricken expression on his face. “Sherlock deserves better! He loved you, Victor! He adored you!”

“No one ... ” Moriarty finally said after a rather long silence, his voice soft and slightly dangerous, “has called me that name in ten years, Doctor Watson. No one knows that name or will speak it.”

“I don’t know what happened, because I’m not entirely sure he knows either, but if you’re not Victor Trevor, then you’re someone who looks a hell of a lot like him.”

“More than someone speaking that name, no one has ever spoken to me like that and lived very long.”

“Then kill me if that’s what you want! You seem to be rather good at it.” John spat, “And I would probably welcome it!”

“Why do you say that?”

“Killing me would be a fucking _mercy_ right now!” He said, his voice hoarse and a little broken because of whatever drug they had hit him with, Ketamine by the way he felt waking up. And something else? One to take him down, something else to keep him there.

“Oh, surely it’s not _that_ bad, Johnny?”

“It’s _your fault_! I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since that mess in Dartmoor and this latest chain of cases has about run me right out of sanity!” He snapped, folding his arms tight across his chest, “And don’t _call_ me that!”

“Call you what?”

“Don’t call me Johnny.” He muttered. “I hate people calling me that.”

 “Out of curiosity, _why_ don’t you like it?” Jim asked carefully. 

“My sister called me Johnny all through our childhood and into adulthood.” John said, some of his anger and bravado ebbing as another fit of vertigo made his vision blurry. “It’s what she calls me when she’s drunk or wants to vent about something. She _knows_ I hate it, and uses it against me because she knows I hate it.”

“Your sister sounds dreadful.”

“That’s one word for her. I can’t afford the effort to love people who just use and abuse me and won’t acknowledge that I have my own feelings.”

“In which case, you owe them nothing. As much as they may be blood to you, toxic relations can only sour your being.”

“You have a sibling, Mr Moriarty?”

“I had two. A younger brother and sister. They were twins.”

“Had?”

“My brother died when I was nine, I haven't seen or spoken to my sister since I was eighteen.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”     

“It’s in the past, I can’t change anything.” There was regret in that disclosure. “But if you can’t reconcile with your sister, at least you’ve tried.”

“Believe me, I’ve tried. Seb knows that.” He looked at Moran, who had been on hand for a couple of those attempts and knew why John hated being called Johnny. He was the only person in this room who did.

“You were together in Afghanistan, weren’t you?” Jim looked at him curiously.

“Yes, for quite a while.” John shrugged off the coat and dropped it on the floor. Moran helped him get out of the vest and they showed a very intrigued Jim how they had dummied the vest and put it back together so that the lights worked but the detonator switches were dead.

“Oh, you _are_ a clever one, Watson!” His eyes fairly glowed, “Oh, lucky Billy Holmes has a partner!”

“I don’t know if I would call us partners, and we’re certainly not dating before _either_ of you asks. Don’t even go there.”

“Who said we were going to?”

“Because everyone in this fucking city seems to think that we’re a couple and I’m almost as sick of _that_ assumption as I am of you and Sherlock making the rest of us feel like proper idiots!”

“In fairness, Doctor Watson, you are obviously not heterosexual. It’s clear enough if one knows the signs.”

“I’m not straight, I’m not gay. I’m bisexual.” He shrugged, giving his sore shoulder a stretch. “I’ll date either way on the spectrum, it just happens to be easier and more socially acceptable for me to date pretty women.”

“Well, he’ll  be here any minute, do you have any suggestions?”

“If you’re smart? You won’t go out there.” John looked towards the closed door that let out onto the pool deck. “If you want to get his attention, threatening my life is the wrong way to go about it. And if you’re really the man I think you are, this would kill him.”

“I ... already did that. Once. I hated myself, and every day for ten years I have hated myself.” Jim looked at him, suddenly nothing like the scary mastermind who held the lives of innocent people over their heads. “When his name came up last year, I had already been following him for a while, I knew his routine and the kind of people who came to see him.”

“Did you _want_ Hope to kill him?”

“Oh, god, no!” Jim’s expression was blank horror, “No! I ... Christ, I loved him! I made Hope _swear_ that the final two pills were both inert and that no harm would come to Sherlock Holmes, or I would take the pleasure of killing him myself.”

“Not a heartless criminal after all.”

“No. But you can’t _tell_ him, John.” Jim did something unusual then and reached out, grabbing John by the hands. “Please, _please_ don’t tell him.”

“What part of it?”

“Who I am.”

“I won’t tell him I found his long-lost boyfriend alive and well at the head of a criminal endeavour, but I will tell him that I met Jim Moriarty and walked away alive.” John smiled a bit. “That’s all he has to know about me. I won’t play messenger.” Outside on the pool deck, they heard Sherlock’s voice.

“He’s here!” Jim pulled away, “I can’t stay, but Sebby will handle the exchange for me.”

“You’ll have to disappear for a while. But feel free to drop little tidbits on us, he gets terribly bored and I would really prefer him to stop damaging the drywall.”

“I’ll be glad to. Anonymously, of course.”

“Oh, don’t worry, he’ll know it’s you.” John smiled. As Jim walked away, he thought of something.

“Oh, I did have one question?”

“Hmm?”

“What were you going to do with those stupid plans? I’ve about had my fill of Mycroft Holmes for the next decade.”

“Nothing.”

“Really?”        

“I wanted to mess with Mycroft’s head a bit, make him think I had some devious scheme to rule the world or something.” That got him a real smile. And John decided that if this ever cleared up and Jim could come out of hiding, he would love to have a drink with the man.

“Seems you and I have a bit more in common than I thought, Mr Moriarty.”

“Darling, please call me Victor.”

“Are you sure?”

“James Victor Moriarty, that’s the whole of it.”

“Oh! You went by Victor Trevor when you knew Sherlock!”

“Go on, get back to our silly little detective,” Jim said cheerfully, blowing a kiss. “Give him my love.”

“See you around, Victor.” John smiled as Jim disappeared.

“Come on, you.” Seb squeezed his shoulder.

“After you, Seb.”

* * *

* * *

 


	3. Chaos Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes the trade, the missile plans for John Watson, and it doesn't go quite as he had imagined it might.

* * *

* * *

When Sherlock Holmes arrived at the pool in Camden where Carl Powers had died in 1989, he was a bit disappointed to have apparently arrived first. But the bomber, whoever he was, had taken John Watson. That was a very gutsy move, for a few reasons. For one, it was in a public street, plenty of people and traffic, plenty of witnesses even at this time of night. Also, John had fought back against his kidnappers, Sherlock had found traces of blood at the scene where he had been taken, just a few doors up from Baker Street. He had collected a sample of the blood and rushed to Barts to test it. It came back to a male suspect, and he got a hit very, very quickly for a small-time criminal named Vinz Ballard, native of Switzerland with a British mother and a Swiss father, and a record of trespassing, menacing, and burglary.

 

He suspected that whoever Vinz Ballard worked for was the same man he was looking for, so he arranged to meet the bomber at the pool at midnight. Sherlock knew he would meet the man behind the very, very interesting puzzles. Yes, people had died, yes John had yelled at him for being an insensitive bastard, but that was no different than the past few weeks. The only thing he legitimately felt sorry for was that he may have truly hurt Molly Hooper’s feelings. She had truly liked Jim, her office-romance. But Molly could do so much better than a bumbling IT tech with appallingly homosexual preferences. Never mind her boyfriend reminded Sherlock far too much of his old Uni boyfriend, Victor. That hadn’t helped at all.

 

Now, Sherlock was waiting for his mystery playmate to reveal themselves. Somewhere else on the pool-deck, he heard a door open. This was it. He spun on his heel, careful of the slick deck under his feet, it wouldn’t do to take a tumble and fall into the pool, would it? But the figure that came into view was…not anyone he had expected. Well, no, that was a lie, but…still.

“Evening.” The familiar, stocky figure spoke to him, “This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

“John.” He breathed, “What the hell...?” It was John Watson, but there was something very wrong. His friend and partner _looked_ okay, unharmed for the most part, but the man standing at John’s shoulder made it very clear that this wasn’t over yet.

“What did you do to him?”

“Captain Watson is unharmed, Mr Holmes.” The man in black fatigues said calmly.

“You ... are not JM.” He knew without question that the man behind John was not the man he had arranged to meet, he was some lackey. No. Not a lackey, a lieutenant, the bomber’s most trusted man and right-hand.

“Mr Moriarty sends his regards.”

“Moriarty.” The name was a gasp. Oh no.

“Do you have the plans?”

“I have the plans.” There was no possible way it could be this easy. He had set the terms himself, the plans for John Watson, but there was no way he could just hand over the plans, get John back, and just walk out of here like nothing had ever happened.

“But?”

“How do I know this isn’t a trap? How do I know you don’t have a dozen snipers on us right this minute waiting for the signal?”

“Because we don’t.” A shrug. He stepped forward and held out the thumb-drive. The man took it and studied it before he slipped it into a pocket and pushed John forward.

“Just watch yourselves, you haven’t seen the last of us.”

“No, of course not.” Sherlock said warily as he put an arm around John’s shoulders and headed for the doors. “Don’t ... ”

“If we follow you, Mr Holmes, it’s for Captain Watson’s own protection and for your sake.” The lieutenant smiled as he folded his hands behind his back. “I daresay you two are now under the express protections of one of the most influential men in London!”

“Why does he suddenly care?”

“That’s for you to find out. Good night, lads!” With that, he stood watch until Sherlock and John were out of sight.

 

Getting out of the aquatic centre seemed to take an eternity, but finally they were out of that building and Sherlock looked for a late-passing cab. He managed to get one and ordered the driver straight back to Baker Street. John slept for most of the trip, and Sherlock didn’t have the heart to question him until they were both safe inside Baker Street. He locked every door and double-checked the street while John clattered around in the kitchen, fixing tea for both of them.

“What just happened out there?”

“We walked away.”

“From _what_?”

“Sherlock, I’ve seen everything and more that would scare the piss out of a normal human being, and come away with nightmares, but tonight?” John came out of the kitchen with two mugs of tea and gave him one, “That was completely different.”

“Why?”

“I’ve seen the face of the man running this puzzles we’ve been solving. He’s ... clever, resourceful, puts your brother to shame on more than a few fronts, and ... well ... ” John sat down in his chair, more slump than sit, “I looked into his face, I know his name, and he let me walk away from that with no second thought. He let me live.”

“I wonder why.”

“I don’t know why, I don’t want to know why.” John took a sip of tea, “Drink your tea, Sherlock.”

“Are you alright, John?”

“No.” That got him a sharp look, “And don’t you dare think about deducing me.”

“You know I can’t help it.”

“Then just ... for fuck’s sake, keep your mouth shut. I know damn well what happened to me tonight and I do not need you to tell me everything. I’m the one it happened to, you weren’t there for anything but the handoff.” He didn’t want to say John was frightened, but there was something about him that wasn’t ... right. He wasn’t quite himself, but in hindsight that was only to be expected. After all, who knows what they’d done to him before Sherlock had shown up with those plans. Which reminded him.

“John, can I ask you one question?”

“I’m not obligated to give you an answer.”

“No, I ... I know. I just wanted to know one thing.”

“Fine. One question.”

“Why did he want the plans so badly?”

“That was your idea, genius.” John looked at him, an eyebrow cocked, “You’re the one who offered those stupid plans for my life. That was quite possibly the _stupidest_ thing you could have done.”

“Mycroft is going to be devastated.”

“Which is exactly the point.” He almost missed that comment because John was taking a sip of tea and he lowered his own cup.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Hmm?”

“What do you mean, that’s exactly the point?”

“What is?”

“My brother.”

“Oh, that?” John chuckled, shaking his head, “You’re never going to believe this, but I actually did ask Moriarty about that before you showed up. Would you like to know what he told me?”

“I’m ... not sure I do.”

“Well, I asked him if he had any intent to use the plans for anything and he said no. He wasn’t going to use them at all, and he would, in fact, destroy them.”

“Then why did he want them?”

“Because he wanted to mess with your brother’s head a bit.” This clearly amused John, “His exact words were “I wanted to mess with Mycroft’s head a bit, make him think I had some devious scheme to rule the world or something.””

“He wasn’t going to use them at all!” Sherlock suddenly understood, “It’s a trick!”

“Exactly.”

“Then what were the hostages about? Why did he take you?”

“The hostages were, if I had to assume, not as innocent as they looked on first glance. Someone like Moriarty would choose his victims carefully. He didn’t just randomly grab strangers off the streets, slapped them into a bomb-vest, and put a gun to their heads.”

“Oh, yes he did!” Sherlock was beaming. He met John’s gaze and they broke down in a fit of laughter. That was actually exactly what Moriarty had done, but he would have picked his victims very carefully. These were people who either had no one to mourn them or had dark secrets he would be very happy to air out for them if they didn’t do just exactly what he asked of them, if Sherlock had to judge. John was the only exception, as far as Sherlock was aware.

“So, really, why _did_ he take you?”

“He said he was proving a point. Or something. He never really explained that to me.” John shrugged, “He’s ... interesting, intriguing.”

“You like him, don’t you?”

“He’s a criminal, I _can’t_ like him.” That got a shrug.

“But you do.”

“If you’d met him, you would be just the same way.” John looked up at him, his gaze steady but a little unfocused. That would be whatever they had drugged him with. “Didn’t hurt any that’s he’s bloody handsome, too.”

“But you’re not gay?”

“Bisexual. Semantics.” John waved a hand at him. “You shot me down the night we met, Sherlock, remember?”

“I’m sorry, John. I ... panicked.”

“You had your heart broken ten years ago, of course you were going to panic when someone tried flirting with you.”

“It’s Mycroft’s fault, you know.”

“Isn’t everything Mycroft’s fault?”

“Well. Yeah.”

“See?”

“If JM wants to mess with my brother, I won’t stop him.”

“I don’t suppose you would mind a few new cases every now and then?”

“Not if they’re interesting enough.”

“Keep your eyes open, Sherlock Holmes.” John grinned, “You might just get your wish.” Finishing his tea, Sherlock retrieved his violin and played a particular piece of music for John, who fell asleep on the couch. Sherlock moved him to his bedroom upstairs and then continued to play through the night, hoping John would sleep well. What a strange night, what a strange experience.

* * *

* * *


	4. Glass Houses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life settles down a bit after The Great Game, and Baker Street takes what cases come to them when Sherlock can be bothered to take one interesting enough to hold his interest for more than five minutes. Then, a very interesting case is put before them, setting them on the trail of a very clever adversary who knows what she wants and how to get what she wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes ASiB! John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, meet Irene Adler.

* * *

* * *

After the end of The Great Game, as John dubbed it in his blog-entry, things settled down in Baker Street. John broke up with his current girlfriend and left his job at the clinic, much to the surprise of everyone who knew him. Except for Sherlock, who just kind of smiled. A few very interesting cases came by them, John knew they were from Moriarty and it didn’t take much for Sherlock to start recognizing the little markers that identified one of Moriarty’s crimes. For some reason, no one else seemed to. But that was fine, John didn’t need anyone else realizing the connection. There were some less-interesting cases that they solved as well, because John said they couldn’t _just_ depend on Moriarty for work and even the mastermind couldn’t be expected to create work for them. John got together at least once a week with Moran and they would commiserate about their respective consultants and how alike they were to each other. But not once did John ever let on that he knew Jim Moriarty’s deepest, and potentially darkest, secret.

 

One of the more interesting cases that came their way involved a great deal of secrecy and when John found himself an unwitting guest of the Royal Family, he knew it had be pretty important. Of course, the fact that he showed up at Buckingham Palace to find Sherlock sitting on a couch that cost more than Sherlock’s wardrobe wearing absolutely nothing more than a white bedsheet, was only to be expected.

“What did you do this time?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock looked at him blandly, “What did _you_ do?”

“Oh, fuck off, Sherlock. I wasn’t within twenty miles of London an hour ago!” John rolled his eyes. “You know, you _can_ get off your lazy arse once in a while and do your own bloody legwork.”

“But it was hardly a 6, John.”

“I don’t care! Do your own fucking work!” He folded his arms across his chest. “I have better things to do with my time than serve as your bloody errand-boy!”

“You quit your job at Dr Sawyer’s clinic, what else could you _possibly_ be doing with your hours?”

“Seb’s offered me work if I want it.”

“Who?”

“Old Army mate of mine, one of the best men I know. Works for a private security firm these days, said he could get me work if I wanted in.”

“But what if I need you?”

“He’s aware of you and your demands on my time, Sherlock. He said it wasn’t a problem, I’d be keeping my own hours.”

“How is that possible?”

“I didn’t ask, and I haven’t taken the offer anyway, so you just stop it.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Sherlock said sullenly. John rolled his eyes. That was exactly the problem! He sat down next to Sherlock.

“Are you wearing any pants?”

“Nope.” That was a pretty quick answer.

“Okay.”John wondered if it was a bad thing that the admission didn’t surprise him. A moment later Sherlock turned and looks at him just as John did the same. Their eyes met and they promptly burst out laughing. This whole day had been absolutely ridiculous, how much more bizarre could it possibly get?

“At Buckingham Palace, fine.” He tried, and failed spectacularly, to get himself under control. “Oh, I’m seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray.”

“You don’t smoke?”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want to steal an ashtray.” He sighed, sobering a bit. “What are we doing here, Sherlock? Seriously, what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Here to see the Queen?” He was only half-joking. Of course, at that very moment, Mycroft walked in from the next room.

“Oh, apparently yes.” Sherlock didn’t miss a beat. John cracked up again and Sherlock promptly joined in. The two of them continued to giggle as Mycroft looked at them in exasperation.

“Just once, can you two behave like grown-ups?”

“We solve crimes, I blog about it and he forgets his pants,” John said with a shrug, “so I wouldn’t hold out too much hope.”

“I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft.” Sherlock looked up at his brother, all humour gone from his face.

“What, the hiker and the backfire?” Mycroft did not look impressed. “I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious, surely?”

“Transparent.”

“Not to mention, _you_ weren’t doing anything.” He said smugly. “Dr Watson was doing all the hard work for you.”

“What about it?”

“Time to move on, then.” He collected the clothes and shoes from the table, turned to offer them to Sherlock, who just gazed at them uninterestedly. Mycroft sighed and looked at his brother.

“We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation.” He said sternly. “Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on.”

 “What for?”

“Your client.”

“And my client is?”

“Illustrious ... ”A stranger’s voice had the brothers turning to the door. “ ... in the extreme.” John was quick to get to his feet, out of respect but also because he’d be damned if he didn’t know the man who had just walked in.

“And remaining – I have to inform you – entirely anonymous.” The man, dressed in a suit that doubled what either of the brothers paid their tailors, looked at Mycroft and smiled.

“Mycroft!”

“Harry.” With an equally genial, genuine smile, he shook the equerry’s hand. “May I just apologise for the state of my little brother?”

“Full-time occupation, I imagine.” Oh, of course,they would know each other. John could only imagine how that had happened. Sherlock scowled.

“This is Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Royal Northumberland Fusiliers.” Mycroft introduced him, unnecessarily.

“Of course. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Captain.” Not “Doctor”, “Captain”. Brilliant.

“Yes, sir. Likewise.” They shook hands.

“My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog.”

“Your employer?” That was a bit of a shock, actually.

“Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminium crutch.”

“Oh! Thank you! Er, give her my thanks, then, I wasn’t aware I had such a following!”

“I’ll be happy to.” The Equerry smiled, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, his other hand coming to rest on his shoulder for a moment before he turned to Sherlock.

“And Mr Holmes the younger. You look taller in your photographs.”

“I take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend.” He said dismissively as he walked abruptly past John, forcing him to step back, and approached his brother. John just stepped back a little and looked over at the equerry, who raised an eyebrow.

“Mycroft, I don’t do anonymous clients. I’m used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is too much work.” He looked round to the equerry. “Good morning.” He started to walk out of the room but then Mycroft stepped onto the trailing edge of the sheet behind him. Sherlock’s momentum carried him forward while pulling the sheet off his body. He stopped and grabbed at it before he ended up completely naked and tried to tug it back around himself, furious.

“This is a matter of national importance,” Mycroft said calmly. “Grow up.”

“Get off my sheet!” Sherlock said through gritted teeth, his back still turned to his brother. 

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll just walk away.”

“I’ll let you.” And John suspected he was only half-joking.

“Boys, please. Not here.” As funny as it would be to see Sherlock storm off stark naked, it wasn’t really something he wanted to witness.

“You look well, son.” The equerry said quietly as the brother bickered. John just folded his arms and sighed.

“I’m alive, does that count?”

“Afraid not.”

“Worth a shot to ask, wasn’t it?” He shrugged. “Don’t suppose Mycroft knows?”

“Doubt it.”

“He knows _everything_.”

“Mm, not everything.” The equerry smiled, “I would apologize for the inconvenience, John.”

“I was nowhere within twenty miles of the city when I was picked up, did you know that? Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to take a case and sent me off to do his legwork for him.”

“Who. Is. My. Client?” Sherlock snarled, absolutely livid, drawing them back to the argument at hand.

“Take a look at where you’re standing and make a deduction. You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now for God’s sake ... ” Mycroft broke off and glanced at John and the equerry briefly, trying to get his anger under control before he turned back to his brother again. “ ... put your clothes on!” Sherlock finally took the stack of clothes and disappeared for a few minutes. While he was gone, John looked at Mycroft, who regarded him with quiet interest.

“I apologize for the abruptness and lack of information, Doctor Watson.”

“I’m used to it, Mr Holmes.” He shrugged, “Did you have any questions?”

“Just one, but it has absolutely nothing to do with the case you have been summoned here for.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s unimportant. And if you want to know anything, you’d better ask now while Sherlock’s gone.”

“How do you and Mr Doyle know each other?”

“John is my son, Mr Holmes, but my wife never took my name after we married.”

“I was under the impression that John’s parents were both deceased.”

“My mother and my stepfather both are, and honestly, good riddance,” John said. “It’s no difference to me.”

“Incredible! My brother is going to be very put out that he’s missed this detail about you, John.”

“Oh, please. He could give two spits less about me or my family.”

“Which might be for the best.” Harry Doyle mused.

“Is the Queen really a fan of my blog?” He asked curiously.

“Oh, absolutely! She loves it!” His father beamed, “She has us print out the newest entries and either she reads them on her own or has them read aloud. The boys, too, are big fans.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” John chuckled, “The Royal Family reads my scrappy little crime blog.”

“They are some of your biggest fans.”

“So much for no one reading my blog.” He looked to his right as he spotted Sherlock, who was now properly dressed. Time to get down to business, then.

 

A short time later, they were all seated together and Mycroft had served tea.

“So, what are we doing here?” John asked, just to get the conversation rolling.

“My employer has a problem.” His father said carefully.

“A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature, and in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen.” Mycroft continued.

“Why? You have a police force of sorts, even a marginally Secret Service.” Sherlock didn’t seem to understand. “Why come to me?”

“People do come to you for help, don’t they, Mr Holmes?” Doyle looked reasonably concerned.

“Not, to date, anyone with a Navy,” Sherlock said, somewhere between boredom and intrigue.

“What kind of problem would have the Royal Family reaching to outside resources?” John inquired. Whatever it was, it was important.

“This is a matter of the highest security, and therefore of trust,” Mycroft said.

“You don’t trust your own Secret Service?”

“Naturally not,” Mycroft said calmly. “They all spy on people for money.” John snickered.

“I do think we have a timetable,” Doyle said carefully, redirecting the conversation.

“Yes, of course. Um ... ” Mycroft opened his briefcase, took out a glossy photograph and handed it to Sherlock, who looked at the picture and handed it to John. “What do you know about this woman?”

“Nothing whatsoever.” As if it was something to be proud of. These days, if JM wasn’t involved, he wasn’t interested.

“Then you should be paying more attention,” Mycroft said snidely. “She’s been at the centre of two political scandals in the last year, and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants separately.”

“You know I don’t concern myself with trivia. Who is she?”

“Irene Adler, professionally known as The Woman.”

“Professionally?” John asked. That was an interesting choice of words.

“There are many names for what she does.” Mycroft studied his fingernails for a moment. “She prefers ‘dominatrix.’”

“Dominatrix.”

“Don’t be alarmed.” Mycroft’s tone was patronizing. “It’s to do with sex.”

“Sex doesn’t alarm me,” Sherlock said without missing a beat.

“How would _you_ know?” Mycroft shot back. Sherlock raised his head and stared at his brother. John reached over and touched Sherlock’s wrist to keep him from saying anything. Sherlock, thankfully, got the hint and kept his mouth shut.

“She provides – shall we say – recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it.” Mycroft continued, taking more photographs from his briefcase and handing them to Sherlock. “These are all from her website.”

Sherlock took the photographs and leafed through them, handing them over to John so he could see them as well. They were professional-looking publicity shots for her ‘services’ and showed a very attractive middle-aged woman in heels and leather, holding a riding crop in one hand.

“And I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs.”

“You’re very quick, Mr Holmes.” Doyle seemed impressed.

“Hardly a difficult deduction. Photographs of whom?”

“A person of significance to my employer.” He looked briefly at John. “We’d prefer not to say any more at this time.” Sherlock put the photographs down on the table, visibly disgusted by the lack of useful intel and secrecy.

“You can’t tell us anything?” John inquired.

“I can tell you it’s a young person.”Mycroft offered as John drank from his teacup. “A young female person.” John’s eyes widened. Sherlock smirked. John could think of a couple of such individuals in the Royal Family.

“How many photographs?”

“A considerable number, apparently.”

“Do Miss Adler and this young female person appear in these photographs together?” Sherlock asked politely.

“Yes, they do.”

“And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios.”

“An imaginative range, we are assured.”

“Can you help us, Mr Holmes?” Doyle asked hopefully, breaking into the conversation.

“How?”

“Will you take the case?”

“What case? Pay her, now and in full.”  Sherlock said abruptly. “As Miss Adler remarks in her masthead, “Know when you are beaten.”” He turned and reached for his Belstaff, which was draped on the back of the sofa.

“She doesn’t want anything.”

“Come again?” Sherlock turned back to Mycroft, who had spoken up.

“She got in touch, she informed us that the photographs existed, she indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favour.”

“Oh, a power play. A power play with the most powerful family in Britain.” That got Sherlock’s attention properly, he was grinning. “Now that _is_ a dominatrix. Ooh, this is getting rather fun, isn’t it?”

“Sherlock ... ” John tried to keep his calm, but it was getting hard. This wasn’t _just_ a case, this was personal! _His_ family was on the hook for this, and if they didn’t do something, it would reflect badly on John and his father.

“Hmm.” Sherlock turned around and reached for his coat again, completely ignoring John. “Where is she?”

“Uh, in London currently.” Mycroft was consulting his memorandum-book. “She’s staying ... ” Not waiting for him to finish, Sherlock picked up his coat, stood and started to walk away.

“Text me the details.” He said dismissively. “I’ll be in touch by the end of the day.” Puzzled by his abrupt departure, John, Doyle, and Mycroft all got to their feet.

“Do you really think you’ll have news by then?” Doyle asked hopefully.

“No, I think I’ll have the photographs,” Sherlock said, turning back to him with a superior expression on his face. John could tell he was making split-second deductions and keeping them to himself and wondered what Sherlock was learning about his father.

“I’ll need some equipment, of course.” He said after a while.

“Anything you require,” Mycroft commented. “I’ll have it sent to ... ”

“Can I have a box of matches?” Sherlock interrupted his brother, looking at Doyle as he spoke.

“I’m sorry?” Doyle didn’t understand.

“Or your cigarette lighter.” He held out one hand expectantly. “Either will do.”

“I don’t smoke,” Doyle explained carefully.

“No, I know _you_ don’t, but your employer does.”

“We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr Holmes,” Doyle said as he removed a lighter from his pocket and handed it to Sherlock.

“I’m not the Commonwealth.” Sherlock took the lighter and put it into his trouser pocket as he turned away and casually strolled out of the room. “Laters!”

“Sherlock Holmes, _stop right there_.” John snapped, using the tone of voice his men had always called his “Captain Watson” voice. And, just as it had worked on reticent soldiers, it worked a treat on his stubborn flat-mate.

“What, John? There’s a rather interesting case on, we have no time to waste.” Sherlock said in that particular tone of voice he always put on when he felt like whining.

“No, I’ve had enough of you.” He snapped.

“Are ... you alright, Doctor Watson?” Mycroft inquired cautiously.

“Mycroft, kindly shut up. I’m talking to your brother.” He didn’t even look at Mycroft. “I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Moriarty back in April. So shut up and listen.” Three startled looks were exchanged, he so rarely raised his voice like that to Sherlock, or spoke so to Mycroft.

“I’ve frankly had quite enough of pompous know-it-alls flaunting your greatness and putting down everyone else because we’re hardly on your level and how dare we sully your presence with our filth and ignorance!”

“Speak your mind, Captain Watson?” Doyle asked slyly as the brothers just stared in shock.

“I’m very sorry, Mr Doyle, and my apologies to your kind employer for my atrocious manners.”

“What’s gotten into you, John?”

“I just _told_ you, Sherlock.” He looked at his flatmate, “You are not just going to walk away from this case like it’s as simple as paying off Irene Adler. That’s only half the problem.”

“She so much as admitted she’s not going to sell the photographs. What are you so worried about?”

“I’m worried about my family’s reputation, Sherlock. It’s not just your reputation, or even just _mine_ that is at stake here, it’s my family’s reputation!” He clenched his left hand in a fist. “If we don’t find a way to handle this discretely, more than just the integrity of the Royal Family is going to come under strict scrutiny.”

“How is your family involved with this?”

“ _My_ family represents the Royal Family of Great Britain, Mr Holmes, we speak for them, we represent them, we do their bidding.” John said softly, his voice low and hoarse, “If I can get a criminal mastermind to see good sense, I don’t see why you should be any different.”

“I hate to interrupt, Captain, at the risk of real bodily harm to my person,” Mycroft broke in carefully, “But twice now you have mentioned or alluded to a dangerous person of interest. I would rather you didn’t treat that incident so ... ”

“Stop. Right. There.” John turned on Mycroft next. “Before you even think about opening your mouth again, Mr Holmes. I walked away from that incident with my life intact, my dignity in shreds, and a strong disdain for the likes of you and your brother. I was treated with more respect by Mr Moriarty than I was by either of _you_ two during that whole fucking mess!”

“He let you go?”

“I negotiated my own release if it makes any difference to you! My life for those fucking plans, Mr Holmes, that was your brother’s agreement!”

“But ... that doesn’t make sense!” Mycroft looked absolutely horrified. “You just let a madman walk away with sensitive military intel?”

“I was a bit more interested in _not_ getting myself blown to bits, Mr Holmes, and an exchange for intel seemed a pretty fair trade.” He looked at Sherlock, “Now if you gentlemen will kindly excuse us, we have a new case to see to. We’ll be in touch as soon as we either know something or have the photographs in our possession.”

“Thank you, Captain Watson.” Doyle smiled. “Good luck.”

“Thank you, Mr Doyle.” John turned at the door as he let Sherlock go ahead of him, “My best regards to your illustrious employer. Please reassure Her Majesty that the incident will be handled with the utmost discretion.”

“Of course I will.” Doyle watched them leave.

 

It wasn’t until they were in a cab and driving back to Baker Street that John dared to breathe easy again.

“John?” Sherlock spoke up after a while, breaking into the silence that had settled between them. John ignored his flatmate.

“John.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m … sorry. I didn’t … ”

“Stop treating me like an imbecile, Sherlock. And for fuck’s sake, stop treating every case that comes to us like it’s beneath your interest.”

“What can we do?”

“Use our resources.”

“Resources?” Sherlock asked curiously. He looked out the window.

“Well, _my_ resources. Hang on a mo.” John retrieved his phone from his pocket and fired off a text to JM.

 

**_Picked up an interesting case with your fingerprints all over it. What do you know about Irene Adler? – JW_ **

****

**_Oh, that came to your attention, did it? I was wondering how long that would take! – JM_ **

****

**_I gave the Holmes Bros a piece of my fucking mind, it was quite liberating. Anything in particular you can tell me to make this easy? I think we would all rather not Sherlock got himself hurt this time. – JW_ **

****

**_If you get your hands on that phone of hers, I gave her the code she used in her screen-lock. I think it will be fairly obvious. – JM_ **

**_Give dear Sherlock my love, won’t you, Misha? – JM_ **

John read the texts and smirked. JM had started calling him “Misha” shortly after their discussion regarding his utter contempt for people calling him “Johnny” and why he didn’t like that particular nickname, but John had no idea where he’d gotten it. He didn’t particularly mind, of course, and JM was the only person who actually called him that. Seb called him Jack, as did all of his Army mates, and Sherlock never really called him anything except John.

A few hours later, John found himself in some serious trouble. At the moment, he was on his knees, hands behind his head, head down, hoping to Christ the man with a gun to his head wouldn’t actually pull the trigger. He and Sherlock had gotten into Irene Adler’s house fairly easily following a bit of a scuffle after Sherlock asked John to punch him in the face, but things had gone downhill from there fairly quickly. A team of Americans, CIA if John had to bet, had broken into the house and ambushed them, quickly taking John, Sherlock, and Irene Adler hostage. Now they were threatening to shoot John if Sherlock didn’t get that safe open by the count of three.

“Seb’s going to kill me for this,” John muttered.

Of course, Sherlock did manage to figure out the code to open the safe before the count of three, but that set off another chain of events. Before he opened the safe, Sherlock turned his head towards John and Adler and spoke two words: “Vatican Cameos”. Instinct kicked in and John reached over, grabbed Adler, and hit the deck. Sherlock ducked against the fireplace as a gunshot rang out in the room. One of the Americans went down, dead on impact with a hole in his chest, and Sherlock and Adler quickly took care of the rest of the Americans.

“Oh, Christ, Seb’s going to kill me.” John got to his feet and looked around. “What a fucking mess!” He brushed off his coat and looked at the pair standing by the fireplace safe before checking on the deceased and unconscious.

“He’s dead.” He remarked after checking on the one who’d taken the bullet fired from Adler’s booby-trapped safe. “Poor bastard.” Not that he was really that sorry about it.

“There’ll be more of them,” Sherlock said calmly. “They’ll be keeping an eye on the building.” Removing the silencer from the pistol he had stolen from the Americans, Sherlock hurried out of the room. John tucked the dead agent’s gun into the back of his jeans and followed him, leaving Adler alone by the safe, her expression stricken.

“We should call the police.” He huffed as they reached the street.

“Yes.” Sherlock aimed the pistol skyward and fired it five times. Nearby, tyres screeched.

“There you go. On their way.”

“For God’s sake!” John rolled his eyes.

“Oh shut up. It’s quick.” He turned and trotted back into the house. John followed him back into the sitting room. Adler turned around from the safe to face them at the sound of their footsteps.

“Where’s my phone?”

“I have it.” Sherlock waved it at him and flipped it nonchalantly into the air before catching it again. “Well, that’s the knighthood in the bag.”

“Ah. And that’s mine.” Unsurprisingly, Adler made a grab for the phone, but Sherlock held it out of reach.

“All the photographs are on here, I presume.” He didn’t pose that as a question.

“I have copies, of course.”

“No, you don’t. You’ll have permanently disabled any kind of uplink or connection.” He continued, eyes narrow. “Unless the contents of this phone are provably unique, you wouldn’t be able to sell them.”

“Who said I’m selling?”

“Well, why would _they_ be interested?” Sherlock said, looking at the dead and unconscious bodies lying on the floor, “Whatever’s on the phone, it’s clearly not just photographs.

“That camera phone is my life, Mr Holmes. I’d die before I let you take it.” She walked closer and held her hand out again. “It’s my protection.”

“It _was_.” Sherlock pulled the phone back, looking at Adler pointedly as he handed the phone to John.

“No! You can’t do this! That phone is … ”

“Blackmail. If we leave it in your hands.” John said calmly, studying the phone curiously. “You said you weren’t going to sell the photographs on this phone.”

“I’m not! It’s … insurance. Protection! As long as I have them, I’m safe.”

“I sincerely doubt that, Ms Adler.” He looked at the lock-screen and the code displayed. “How many attempts before the phone self-destructs and destroys all of the data on it?”

“Four.”

“Mhm.” John turned the phone over in his hands, not stupid enough to take the case off the back. That would trigger the self-destruct for certain.

“What do you mean, self-destruct?” Sherlock queried.

“No one else can access the data, because you’ve set two pass-codes on this phone, and you chose a very … unique passcode on your lock.”

“John, what are you doing?”

“Hush, Sherlock.” He held up one finger and focused on the phone.

“You’re never going to get into that phone, you know,” Adler said smugly.

“You don’t know that.” He looked at Sherlock, who held out one hand for Adler’s phone. “We’d better figure out how the Americans broke into the house.”

“You’re coming with us,” Sherlock said gruffly, grabbing Adler by the wrist as he slid the phone into his back pocket.

They went upstairs together, and found Adler’s assistant Kate unconscious in the bedroom. John knelt over the Kate after they found her lying on the floor. Putting his ear to her mouth to check her breathing, he straightened up and took her pulse. An open window in the bathroom was the apparent point of entry.

“Must have come in this way.” John mused after inspecting it for himself.

“Clearly.” Sherlock went into the bathroom to look out of the window as Irene anxiously inspected Kate.

“It’s all right.” John reassured her, “She’s just out cold.”

“Well, God knows she’s used to that.” Adler looked at him across Kate’s body. “There’s a back door. Better check it, Doctor Watson.”

“Sure.” He looked up at Sherlock, who nodded from the doorway to the bathroom. John moved Kate to the second bedroom to sleep off the incident before he searched the rest of the house. It didn’t seem any damage had been done, but it was obvious the upstairs window and the back door had been the points of entry.

When he got back to where he’d left Sherlock and Adler, he found Sherlock laid out on the floor, clearly drugged, and Adler escaping out the open bathroom window.

“Jesus. What are you doing?”

“He’ll sleep for a few hours.” She smirked, looking at Sherlock. “Make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit. It makes for a very unattractive corpse.” Adler sat on the windowsill in the bathroom, put her feet up on the edge of the bath and took hold of a cord hanging from the ledge.

“What’s this? What have you given him?” John picked up an empty syringe lying on the floor, studying it.

“He’ll be fine. I’ve used it on loads of my friends.” Adler said cheerfully.

“Sherlock!” John knelt beside his flatmate, “Sherlock, can you hear me?”

“You know, I was wrong about him. He did know where to look.”

“For what? What are you talking about?” He stood up and looked at Adler.

“The key code to my safe.”

“What was it?” He hadn’t been paying attention as Sherlock got the safe open downstairs. Too busy trying not to get himself killed by a gang of trigger-happy Americans.

“Shall I tell him?” She looked down at Sherlock who was barely conscious but still trying in vain to get up. John looked down for a moment then turned back to Irene just as sirens announced the arrival of the police.

“My measurements.” Adler smiled at him as she pushed her feet against the edge of the bath and toppled backwards out of the window, still holding the hanging belay cord. Even John knew what that looked like. He hurried over to the window and looked out while Sherlock tried vainly to lift himself up but fell back helplessly. Adler was gone, and with her, apparently, that phone.

The sound of banging downstairs told him they had company that was not above breaking the door down to get into the house if someone didn’t open up. Promising Sherlock he would be _right back_ , John ran downstairs to let in the police. When he opened the door to Greg Lestrade leading a gang of them, he almost cried.

“Oh thank heavens they sent you, Greg!”

“What the hell happened?”

“You _don’t_ want to know! We need ambulances and the vans.” He spotted both of the requested and wished for vehicles parked outside and heaved a sigh of relief.

“You alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“Where’s Sherlock?”

“Upstairs, he’s not in good shape at all.”

“And the home-owner?”

“Gone. Don’t know where she went, but I wouldn’t bother looking for her.” John took Greg upstairs while the rest of them dispersed around the house, wondering how he would ever explain this mess. Thankfully, he didn’t have to. Greg wasn’t stupid and he knew when something was above his clearance. He simply told his teams to collect the victims, get the wounded to hospitals and the dead to the morgue, don’t touch anything, don’t ask any questions. John appreciated that, sometimes there just was no explaining the kind of trouble he and Sherlock got themselves into.

* * *

* * *


	5. Petty Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scandal continues, and Sherlock discovers that someone has tampered with his phone.

* * *

* * *

 

Sherlock didn’t quite remember what had happened in the Belgravia house, but he seemed to remember losing Irene Adler’s phone. Mycroft would be quite cross with him. He was curious to know exactly what was on that bloody camera phone. More than a few compromising pictures, if he was any good at his job. So, when he suddenly was aware of someone standing over him, he tried to react. He couldn’t, his body still didn’t want to cooperate. And he had no idea where he was.

“Hush now.” It was Adler’s voice in his ear, a soft, seductive whisper as she leaned down over him. Sherlock’s fuzzy vision proved that wherever they were, they were no longer in an outdoor field, which he wasn’t sure they had ever been in the first place.

“It’s okay. I’m only returning your coat.” She murmured as she leaned closer towards him, then she faded out of focus. As if she had never existed. Sherlock jerked back into full, groggy consciousness and found himself alone and in bed in his own bedroom, fully clothed and covered with a sheet.

“John?” He lifted his head and shook it, trying to clear it. “John!” He tried calling again, louder. Sherlock threw back the sheet and knelt up on the bed, then promptly lost his balance, fell forward and rolled over the foot of the bed and onto the floor, landing with a painful thud. A moment later, John opened the bedroom door and came in as he tried to sit up.

“You okay?” John asked curiously.

“How did I get here?” Sherlock looked up at his flatmate, trying to put missing pieces together.

“Well, I don’t suppose you remember much. You weren’t making a lot of sense.” He grinned, a friendly, compassionate expression. “Oh, I should warn you: I think Greg filmed you on his phone.”

“Who did what?”

“Greg Lestrade? I’m pretty sure he filmed you on his phone.”        

“Oh.” Oh, of _course_ he had! But why had Lestrade gotten involved?

“Where is she?”

“Where’s who?” John frowned.

“The woman.” He struggled to his feet, looking around. “That woman.”

“What woman?” John watched him, probably thought he was ranting.

“ _The_ woman.” He staggered around the room, “The _woman_ woman!” He didn’t care as much about incriminating video-footage of him out of his head and rambling about who knew what, he wanted to know what had happened to Irene Adler.

“What, Irene Adler?” John asked as Sherlock made his way to the open window, “She got away. No-one saw her.”

“Why is my window open?” He turned to look at John.

“I opened it for you,” John said carefully. “She wasn’t here, Sherlock. No one has broken into your room while you were sleeping.” Turning around, Sherlock dropped to the floor and checked under the bed as if expecting to see Adler hiding there, then checking that she was not hidden under or behind the wardrobe.

“What are you ...? What ...?” John watched him do this, bemused. “No, no, no, no. Back to bed.” He hauled Sherlock up and dropped him face-down onto the bed before rolling him onto his side and covering him with the blanket.

“You’ll be fine in the morning. Just sleep.”

“Of course I’ll be fine.” He said, half-muffled in the pillow. “I _am_ fine. I’m absolutely fine.”

“Yes, you’re great.” John clearly didn’t believe him. “Now, I’ll be next door if you need me.”

“Why would I need you?”

“No reason at all.” John said, resigned and far too used to this kind of behaviour. That probably wasn’t a good thing. He left the room shutting the door behind him. Sherlock saw his coat hanging on the back of the door. Where had that come from? Surely he hadn’t gotten it back from Adler before she drugged him?

 

It wasn’t much later that his pocket lit up as his phone buzzed and an orgasmic female sigh sounded. Sherlock sat up, looking blearily across to his coat. Realising that it could only have been returned by Irene, he got out of bed and picked his unsteady away across the room, losing his balance a couple of times en route but managing to stay on his feet. Finally he got to the door and retrieved his phone. Bracing himself against the wall he unlocked his phone to find a new text message waiting for him. It read as follows:

 

**Till the next time, Mr. Holmes**

 

Sherlock peered at his phone for a long moment and then looked around suspiciously. He hadn’t been imagining things, she _had_ been in his room. She had returned his coat. But … why? Why had she done that? Why had she done _any_ of it? Too disoriented to think about much of anything useful, Sherlock groaned and retreated to his bed. He stripped out of his clothes, left them in a pile on the floor, and crawled into bed, thinking as he faded out that his brother could bloody well handle the matter by himself the next time a “matter of great national secrecy” came along.

 

Morning came soon enough, far too soon for Sherlock’s aching head, and with it came Mycroft looking for news. He arrived while John and Sherlock were in the kitchen together, John was eating breakfast and Sherlock was reading the papers, neither of them were entirely thrilled to see Mycroft after yesterday’s mishaps.

“The photographs are perfectly safe.” Sherlock reassured his brother.

“In the hands of a fugitive sex worker.” As if it was their faults? As if it was their faults the pictures existed at all. It wasn’t like they hadn’t tried to recover the phone yesterday, after all.

“She’s not interested in blackmail. She wants ... protection for some reason.” Sherlock studied the papers. “I take it you’ve stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?”

“How can we do anything while she has the photographs?” Mycroft’s expression soured. “Our hands are tied.”

“She’d applaud your choice of words.” Sherlock said blandly. “You see how this works: that camera phone is her “Get out of jail free” card. You have to leave her alone. Treat her like royalty, Mycroft.” John smirked at the jab.

“Though not the way _she_ treats royalty.” He smiled sarcastically at Mycroft, who returned the smile humourlessly. Just then the sound of an orgasmic female sigh filled the room. John and Mycroft frowned.

“What was _that_?” He asked, absolutely mystified by the unexpected sound.

“Text.” Sherlock commented, trying to remain nonchalant.

“But what was that noise?” John inquired as Sherlock got up and retrieved his phone from nearby, glancing at the message he had just received:

 

**Good morning, Mr. Holmes**

 

“Did you know there were other people after her too, Mycroft, before you sent John and I in there?”  He returned to the table and sat down again after reading the text, “CIA-trained killers, at an excellent guess.”

“Yeah, _thanks_ for that, Mycroft.” John looked round at Mycroft, absolutely nonplussed about that not-so-minor detail as Mrs Hudson brought in a plate of breakfast from the kitchen and put it down in front of Sherlock. Whether he ate any of it or not was a different matter, the sentiment a bit misplaced but well-meant.

“It’s a disgrace, sending your little brother into danger like that.” She said sternly, giving Mycroft a look. “Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes.”

“Oh, do shut up, Mrs Hudson.” Mycroft snapped, not quite thinking before he spoke.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock shouted angrily.

“Oi!” John echoed. Their outbursts had the effect of startling Mycroft, who looked at the three angry faces glaring at him, had the grace to cringe, and looked contritely at Mrs Hudson next.

“Apologies.”

“Thank you.” Mrs Hudson said tersely.

“Though do, in fact, shut up.” Sherlock picked up the paper right as his phone sounded off again.

“Ooh. It’s a bit rude, that noise, isn’t it?” Mrs Hudson, who was going back into the kitchen, turned around and gave him a look. Sherlock read the latest message:

 

**Feeling better?**

 

“There’s nothing you can do and nothing she will do as far as I can see.” He said as he set his phone down.

“I can put maximum surveillance on her.”

“Why bother? You can follow her on Twitter.” Sherlock glanced at his brother. “I believe her user name is “TheWhipHand.””

“Yes. Most amusing.” Which he clearly did not think it was at all. The sound of his phone ringing interrupted the moment and he took it from his pocket. “’Scuse me."

 _“Hello.”_ He walked out into the hall. Sherlock watched him, suspicious. John looked at him from across the table.

“What?”

“Why does your phone make that noise?” He inquired.

What noise?

“ _That_ noise – the one it just made.” John waved his fork at the offending piece of technology in question.

“It’s a text alert.” He said calmly. “It means I’ve got a text.”

“Hmm. Your texts don’t usually make that noise.”

“Well, somebody got hold of the phone and apparently, as a joke, personalised their text alert noise.”

“Right. So every time they text you ... ” He paused. Right on cue, the phone made it’s indecent noise again.

“It would seem so.”

“Could you turn that phone down a bit?” Mrs Hudson said fretfully. “At my time of life, it’s ... ” She trailed off with a vague, fluttering hand-motion.

The latest text message read:

 

**I’m fine since you didn’t ask**

 

Sherlock put down the phone again and went back to reading the paper.

“I’m wondering who could have got hold of your phone, because it would have been in your coat, wouldn’t it?” John commented.

“I’ll leave you to your deductions.” Sherlock raised his newspaper so that it obscured his face.

“I’m not stupid, you know.” He said with a smile.

“Where do you get that idea?” Sherlock rolled his eyes behind the newspaper as Mycroft came back into the room, still talking on his phone.

 _“Bond Air is go, that’s decided. Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later.”_ He hung up then and pocketed his phone.

“What else does she have?” Sherlock looked at his brother over the top of the newspaper. Mycroft just looked back at him enquiringly.

“Irene Adler.” He supplied, “The Americans wouldn’t be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs. There’s more.” He stood up and faced his brother. “Much more.” Mycroft looked at him stony-faced as Sherlock moved closer to him.

“Something big’s coming, isn’t it?”

“Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours.” Mycroft finally said, his tone gruff and cold.

“That’s not what you said yesterday,” John muttered, unbothered by the absolutely scathing glare he got from the elder Holmes.

“From now on you will stay out of this.” Mycroft continued, as if John had never spoken. He was actually used to that, so it really didn’t bother him at all.

“Oh, will I?” Sherlock locked eyes with his brother, challenging him on that.

“Yes, Sherlock, you _will_.” His voice was positively hostile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend.”

“Do give her my love.” Sherlock said airily as he retrieved his violin and began to play “God Save The Queen.” Mycroft rolled his eyes, turned and left the room, Sherlock following along behind him while John stayed put, a grin plastered firmly in place. As Mycroft hurried down the stairs, Sherlock turned back and walks over to the window, still playing. There was something else to all of this, but they could be patient to let the pieces fall where they would, the bigger picture would eventually become clear if they just gave it some time.

* * *

* * *

 


	6. Disguised By The Elements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Irene Adler momentarily off of Baker Street's "Most Wanted" list, John and Sherlock settle back into their routine. Halloween is upon them in no time and with it comes a bit of introspection, a bit of angst, and a deeply personal obligation. Sherlock reflects on why he does this every year, and John is there to keep him company in a crowd of strangers as he attends the gala for the first time in ten years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can thank D for most of this, particularly helping me with the boys' costumes. Oh did I have loads of fun picking them out! I was actually watching the Granada Sherlock TV series as I wrote this chapter, which may or may not have deeply influenced my costume-choices for Sherlock, JM, and Seb.

* * *

* * *

September faded into October, Halloween was soon upon them, and an invitation arrived in the post for Sherlock. John found it one afternoon as he came back from errands and tossed it in Sherlock’s direction once he got into the flat.

“That’s yours.”

“What is it?” Sherlock picked the packet up from where it had landed on his chest. “I wasn’t expecting anything in the post, was I?”

“Dunno. Looks pretty official, though.” He deposited the shop in the proper places and carried a stack of bills to the worktable. “From The Brit, if I had to guess, going by the rather suggestive stationary. Looks like an invitation to something.”

“Yes.” Sherlock tore open the envelope carefully and withdrew the contents. “It _is_ an invitation.”

“To what?”

“Guess.” The shuffle of paper told him Sherlock was reading the invitation, which was a first. John raised an eyebrow.

“Well, considering that came from The British Museum, I can only assume it’s a formal invitation to their annual Halloween Masquerade Gala. Though I can’t imagine why you would get one, you _hate_ public events like that.”

“I am a donor to several of the charities and projects run by the museum.”

“Oh?”

“Mm.”

“I didn’t know that.” John raised his head and looked over at the tall figure laid along the length of their couch. “For Victor?”

“Mhm.” There was an air of sadness that, for once, had _nothing_ to do with Irene Adler.

“No wonder you got an invitation.” He went back to working out their finances, which _seemed_ to be relatively well in order for the moment. “Will you go?”

“No. I don’t ... no.”

“Why not?”

“Because the last time I attended the Gala was the Halloween before Victor died. Every year since then, without fail, I have donated five-hundred thousand pounds to The Brit in Victor’s honour, but I have not attended the Gala in person.”

“Would you go this year?”

“I wasn’t particularly interested in doing that.” Sherlock leaned his head back and looked at John. “Why? Do you want to go?”

“I’d like to. I went once years ago with an Army-mate of mine while we were in London for leave, it was quite a good bit of fun for us.”

“All the ladies love a soldier.” Sherlock mused. John chuckled but didn’t bother to correct him. It was quiet for a while, but he knew he’d gotten Sherlock thinking about it. Sure enough, not thirty minutes had gone by before Sherlock spoke up.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Would ... if I attended the Gala this year, could I possibly convince you to join me?” He sounded so uncertain, “I haven’t gone in ten years because I hated going alone. I always felt like people pitied me because of whatever reasons they had. I didn’t feel ... ”

“You didn’t feel like you were welcome.”

“Mm.” Sherlock resettled himself. “You’ll come with me to-night?”

“When you like and where you like.” He just smiled. “I’d be absolutely happy to go with you, Sherlock, I’d be _honoured_.”

“Good old Watson.” Sherlock murmured. “Faithful as ever.”

“You know this means we have to find costumes, right?” He asked with a smug grin, arms across his chest.

“Well, _you_ have to find a suitable costume.” Sherlock swung into a sitting position, “I believe I have one that should suit the occasion quite well.”

“No problem! Are you going to tell me what it is?”

“No, because you’ll laugh at me.”

“I promise I won’t laugh at your costume if you swear over your grandmother’s grave you won’t make fun of _mine,_ ” John said pointedly.

“Why on earth would I do such a thing?”

“Because it’s what you _do_. Promise, Sherlock.”

“Why is it so important?”

“Because you seem to take great enjoyment from making fun of my interests and hobbies.” John shook his head, “Promise, or I’m _not_ going and you’ll be going to this thing by yourself.”

“Oh, very well.”

“Then you keep your judgmental commentary to yourself tonight.” He collected his keys and wallet and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I have a few things to get before tonight. I’ll be back in time, don’t worry.” Waving to Sherlock, and wondering what his costume could possibly be that he thought John would laugh at him for wearing it, he headed out again. Hailing a passing taxi, he ordered the driver to a nearby fancy dress hire, knowing exactly what he needed and knowing the shop in question would have those things.

 

Twenty minutes later, the cab dropped him off at his destination and he looked up at the signage. Well, no time to waste, he had a mission. Bracing himself, John pulled the door open and walked into the store. A bell chimed somewhere overhead and he began perusing the aisles and racks of costumes.

“Hi! Welcome to Oswin’s Costume Collection!” A cheerful voice called from nearer the back of the shop, “Let me know if you need any help finding anything!” John smiled as he recognized the speaker. Wandering towards a particular section of the store, he caught sight of a small, dark-haired woman with brown eyes sitting on a stool behind the register, wearing a pair of white angel wings and a halo headpiece.

“Afternoon, Clara!” He called out as he passed by. In a heartbeat, her head snapped up and when she saw him, her eyes widened.

“Oh, John! Hi!” The woman hopped down from the stool and darted around the counter to hug him. “Hi! What are _you_ doing here? Christ, it’s been an age since I saw you, what are you up to these days?”

“Hi, Clara. How’s business?” John chuckled as he hugged his ex-sister-in-law.

“Oh, gosh, business has been crazy! Especially this month!” Clara rolled her eyes as she linked arms with him, “So, what brings you here? On Halloween?”

“I’m looking for a costume. Terribly last-minute of me, I know, but I figured if anyone on this bloody city of degenerates would have what I want, you would.”

“Oh, that’s no problem!” Clara giggled, “As you can see, I have _plenty_ of inventory left! What are you looking for? What’s the occasion?”

“Doctor Who?”

“This way! You’re close!” She hauled him in the direction he’d already been going. “Tib, hold the front for me!”

“You got it, Boss!” Another employee manned the register while Clara dragged John towards the section of costumes he had asked for.

“So, which of the Regenerations are you dressing up as?”

“No idea.”

“Well, here’s what we have for The Doctor!” Clara showed him a rack of costumes with an outfit for every single existing Doctor from First to Eleven, the current Doctor. There were other costumes for other franchise characters such as Cybermen and a few of the Companions, but  John knew what he was looking for, he just had to find it.

“Give a shout if you need any help!”

“Thanks, Clara.” He sorted through costumes and let Clara get back to work.

 

After some browsing, he found an Eleventh Doctor costume that looked absolutely perfect. Before deciding to purchase it, he tried it on.

“Well?” He turned to Clara, who was helping him get dressed, arms spread as he faced her, “What do you think?”

“Oh, John, that’s fantastic! You look just like Eleven!”

“Well, he’s a bit taller and skinnier than I am.” He looked at his reflection. “Never really thought myself the sort of bloke who could pull off a bowtie.”

“Here! Can’t be The Doctor without these!” Clara plopped a fez onto his head and gave him a small billfold and a replica sonic screwdriver. “Now you’re all ready! You look fabulous!”

“I think I’ll take the lot, Clara.” He suspected Sherlock would have _plenty_ to say about John’s costume choice, but if he was smart, he wouldn’t say anything about it.

“Great! I’ll step out so you can get changed!” She beamed at him and stepped out of the dressing-room. John took off the costume and put everything on hangers properly before handing it through the curtain to his waiting sister-in-law.

“I’ll meet you at the counter!” Clara called as he finished getting dressed in his regular clothes. John just smiled and headed for the counter once he was ready. Paying for his purchases didn’t take long at all and after promising Clara that he would try to keep in better touch than he had been, John headed back to Baker Street.

“Bye, John!” She waved as he headed out the door with his two shop bags, “See you later!”

“Bye, Clara! Thanks again!” He called back. Instead of hailing a cab, John opted to take the Tube home, he really wasn’t in a great big hurry.

 

Sherlock was taking a shower when he got home, so John just headed right upstairs to start getting ready for the evening ahead. Taking a quick shower of his own, John made short work of getting dressed in his costume. As he was putting the finishing touches on the outfit, he heard Sherlock moving around down in the sitting room and counted backwards in his head until he heard a familiar shout.

“John! Hurry up, we’re going to be late!”

“Oh, calm down, Sherlock, we’re fine!” He smiled as he tugged on the bowtie. “Be down in a minute!”

 

Making sure he had his wallet and phone, and since he was going out with Sherlock he also made sure he had his side-arm, John grabbed his jacket and headed downstairs to meet Sherlock. He wasn’t in the sitting-room, but John did find him by the front door. And did an immediate double-take. He also, embarrassingly, laughed. Once. Only once.

“John.” Sherlock scolded, “You _promised_.”

“Oh my god.” He let out a shaky breath, “Wow, Sherlock!”

“I know, I look ridiculous.”

“Oh, no! No, Jesus, you look fantastic! You look … amazing!” John pulled on his jacket as he approached his friend, “Um, Victorian detective?”

“Yes.” Sherlock made a face. “It’s … actually part of a couples’ costume. The last time I wore this was with Victor.”

“What did he dress up as, then?”

“Jack the Ripper.”

“Oh, I bet you two were the favourites!” John smiled and touched the material of the grey overcoat. It looked like an Inverness coat. “This looks amazing on you! The hat’s a nice touch, too.”

“Victor insisted I wear a deerstalker with my costume.”

“Well, I like the whole look! It’s … surprisingly subtle.”

“And you, I must assume, are the Eleventh Doctor?”

“What gave _that_ away?”

“Well, besides the ridiculous fez you’re wearing and the rather gaudy bowtie, you’re carrying your sonic in your back pocket.”

“Mm, observant bastard.” John smiled, “What do you think?”

“It … well, to be quite honest, it suits you. You pull off Eleven quite well, don’t you?” Sherlock prowled around him, “A bit too short, though. Matt Smith is five-foot-eleven, you’re, what, five-foot-seven?” John snorted.

“You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” He folded his arms across his chest and looked up at Sherlock. “You just had to say something.”

“Well, I’m not making _fun_ of you, am I?”

“I suppose this is you being nice, isn’t it?” He raised an eyebrow, “Oh, Sherlock, what am I to do with you?”

“Keep putting up with me? No one else can seem to manage, but you’ve not … well, you haven’t exactly run for the hills, have you?” Sherlock just smiled and opened the door. “After you, Doctor.”

“Thank you, sir.” John chuckled as he stepped out of the house. “Mrs Hudson, we’re off to the gala! Be back late!”

“Oh, wait, boys! Wait!” Mrs Hudson came charging out of her flat, “Wait a moment! I wanted a picture of the two of you together before you left!”

“Oh, of course, you did.” Sherlock and John shared an eye-roll, but they obediently stood for a few requisite pictures and a rather lot of fussing. Mrs Hudson was just about beside herself seeing the two of them all dressed up for the night and gushed to Sherlock about how generous he was and what a lovely thing he was doing, and she wanted them to be safe tonight.

“Good luck, boys, have a good time!” She called, waving from the stoop as they got into a taxi Sherlock had conjured out of thin air.

“Good night, Mrs Hudson!” John called before he climbed in behind Sherlock and closed the door. Sherlock gave the driver the address and it was quiet as they drove from Baker Street to The Brit. 

 

The driver, clued in by their costumes, wanted to know if they were going to one of the many costume parties being held around the city tonight.

“Yes. The Brit’s annual.” John offered, looking at Sherlock, “I haven’t been in a few years, and neither has this one. Figured it was a decent way to spend an evening.”

“Oh? Well, you gents have a good time! I’ve heard about the sorts that show up there, should be interesting for the likes of you two!”

“Good for people-watching if nothing else.” John looked out the window at the city passing them by.

 

When they got to the museum, John got out first and paid the fare while Sherlock stood on the footpath and watched the crowds of people coming and going.

“Alright, you, come on.” John took Sherlock by the hand, “Let’s go inside.”

“I’m beginning to remember why I _don’t_ come to this,” Sherlock muttered, shaking his head.

“Well, in your defence, it’s highly unlikely anyone is actually going to recognize you in _that get-up_ , and anyone who does, you don’t really have to be nice to them. Polite, but not nice.”

“No deducing people out loud?”

“Please try not to?” John led the way, following the signage.

“I promise nothing, but I will try my best not to,” Sherlock said, which was really all John could reasonably ask for.

 

When they got to the registration tables, Sherlock produced the invitation they had received in the mail that very afternoon.

“Names, sir?” A fairly attractive young woman wearing a Venetian eye-mask smiled up at them.

“S. Holmes and guest.”

“Oh, yes!” She checked a list of names and found theirs, “Here you are, Mr Holmes! It’s a pleasure to have you with us tonight!”

“Yes. Is Mr Finley going to be here tonight?”

“I believe he’s already here, sir, you’ll find him in the West Foyer.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock gave a terse, slightly insincere smile, and headed in the direction indicated. John stuck close to Sherlock, for the most part, just to keep him from verbally destroying anyone else at the gala and make sure his temperamental partner behaved himself.

 

After taking care of the immediate concerns of procuring something alcoholic to drink, Sherlock located whoever it was he wanted to speak to and John stood aside as he handed over a signed cheque for the sum of five hundred thousand pounds.

“As always, Mr Holmes, thank you so very much for your generosity.” The gentleman said as he shook Sherlock’s hand. “And, again, may I express my condolences. Mr Trevor’s death was a loss felt by a great many people, but I imagine ten years has done precious little to dull the sting.”

“Thank you, Mr Finley. Whoever it was that said you can eventually recover from the loss of a loved one, move on, I would have some rather unfriendly words for them.” Sherlock’s expression tightened. “I wanted to remember Victor somehow, and this ... well, this was his passion and funding his passions seemed a fitting memorial to one of the most remarkable men I ever knew.”

“And we are all very grateful for your contributions, Mr Holmes. May I wish you and your company a pleasant evening?”

“Thank you, and you as well, Mr Finley. My regards to your wife.”

“Of course.” The man, clearly a board member of some sort, smiled and left them to their own business. As soon as he was out of earshot, John grabbed Sherlock after setting down their glasses and ushered him into a quiet room nearby, mostly empty of people, out of the way of the crowds and a bit more isolated.

“Thank you, John.”

“That’s what we call putting your foot in your mouth.” He sighed as Sherlock slumped onto a bench, “I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest that maybe our effusive Mr Finley wasn’t quite aware that he’d erred. But you certainly handled it better than I thought you might.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know you don’t like talking about Victor, especially around strangers, and being reminded of his death like that ... ”

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“Have ... have you ever been in love before?”

“Pardon?” He turned from keeping tabs on the other patrons in the room. No one was bothering them or even really noticed. That was probably for the best if Sherlock was going to have a moment.

“Have you ever been in love before?”

“Oh. N-no. I don’t ... no, not the way you’re asking about it.”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes grey and sad, “I wish you knew what it feels like.”

“Talk to me, Sherlock.” He sat down next to his friend, “Tell me everything.”

“My brother ... he likes to say awful things like “sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side”, or “caring is not an advantage, Sherlock”. But Victor, he was ... an incredible person, the best partner a man could have.”

“He was your world, wasn’t he?” Maybe John didn’t know what it was like to really be in love with someone, but he had seen enough of it to know what it _looked_ like, how couples acted when they had that one person who just made their lives whole.

“We had a once-in-a-lifetime love. It was the kind of relationship where I would start a sentence and he would finish it.” Sherlock shook his head. “Sometimes you can see behind somebody's eyes and feel as if you have known them all your life. That's how it was.”

“That’s lovely, Sherlock, ”

“I didn’t come up with those words, though.” Sherlock got to his feet when John offered him a hand up, “Someone else did, but they … they seemed to fit. I said the same thing at Vic’s funeral, it was all I could think of saying that would come even close to describing what we had.”

“Who said it first, then?”

“An actor named Jeremy Brett. I believe he spoke those words I just used after his second wife passed away.” Sherlock brushed off his coat and sniffled. “He must have loved her very much to speak so … eloquently about her.”

“He must have, as much as you apparently loved Victor. I’m so sorry you lost him so horribly.” John smiled and squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “Go stop by the gents and take a minute. Wash your face.”

“Is it obvious?”

“Not really, but you’ll feel better.”

“Thank you, John. You really are a very good friend.”

“Sherlock, honestly, you’re my best friend.” He touched two fingers to a thready, racing pulse. “Someone has to take care of you, and I really don’t mind the job.”

“I’m your best … ”

“Best friend. You heard me alright.”

“Oh. I don’t think I’ve ever been someone’s “best” friend. I mean, not since … Victor.”

“You drive me bonkers, Sherlock, but I wouldn’t trade you for the world.” John located the gents and pushed Sherlock in that direction. “Go take a minute to get yourself under control. I’ll be around.”

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock smiled briefly at him and disappeared. Confident he could leave Sherlock alone to calm down enough to make a public appearance, John went off to find something to drink. Christ knew he needed one. 

As John made the rounds solo, several people came up to him just to say how much they enjoyed his blog. As he was chatting with one of the guests, one of the MI lot, John was aware of another guest moving in on intercept. He thought he recognized the man and smirked.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” The interloper said placidly. “Mr Tanner, could I borrow your colleague for the foreseeable future?”

“Ah, hello, Colonel! Of course!” John current company smiled. “Good to see you, sir. Keeping out of trouble these days?”

“I do try.”

“Well, I haven’t seen your name in our reports lately, so I suppose that’s true.” Bill Tanner gave the man a thorough, inquiring look and raised an eyebrow. “Though what on earth you could possibly want with John Watson?”

“Old friends, Mr Tanner. Watson served under me for years, most of it in Afghanistan.”

“Oh, well, in that case, he’s all yours! Just don’t get him into any trouble, will you?”

“I promise nothing!” That was a familiar smile and John chuckled.

“Lovely to meet you, Mr Tanner.” He said, offering the man one hand. “I doubt this is the last we’ll have to do with each other.

“Unlikely! And likewise, Doctor.” Tanner said cheerfully. As he followed the gentleman across the crowded, humming floor, John whistled to himself and put his hands in his pockets, grinning.

“You can just wipe that smile off your face, Captain Watson.”

“I would say I’m sorry, sir, but I think we both know that would be lying.” He just gave a casual shrug. “So, if I were to ask what brings the likes of Sebastian Moran to The Brit’s Halloween Masquerade Gala, would I get the truth out of you?”

“Would you believe the truth?”

“I live with your boss’s ex-fiance. What do you think?”

“Half a mind to have you up for that kind of insubordination, son.”

“I’m sure you would, sir, but I hazard these good and entirely unsuspecting people would be properly scandalized if I suddenly dropped to my knees in the middle of the floor.”

“Oh, you would, wouldn’t you?” Moran’s expression sharpened. “You’d like that, eh?”

“I like to think we _both_ would, sir.” John knew he shouldn’t be getting away with this, let alone thinking such thoughts, but he had _missed_ Moran for what felt like years. They had once been lovers, years ago when they had both been younger and John had been keen and ambitious, before scandal had seen them go their separate ways.

“On the subject of our consultants.” Moran smoothly changed the subject. “How much do you _actually_ trust yours?”

“On a good day? About as far as I can throw his poncy arse.” John took a sip of his drink. “I consider it a good day if he hasn’t destroyed the kitchen before noon, and a great one if I get at least six hours of uninterrupted sleep after eleven pm.”

“Sounds about right.” Moran chuckled.

“What about _yours_ , then?”

“You don’t even want to know the crazy shit I have to put up with.” Moran made a face. “Does yours throw fits when he gets bored or doesn’t get his way?”

“Like a petulant six-year-old.”

“I’m so sorry. I suppose we suffer together.”

“God help us.” John shook his head.

“Don’t you mean God help London?”

“I’m trying not to think too hard about that.” He sighed. For one, Sherlock and Moriarty weren’t even involved with each other.

“Sebby!” A voice shouted across the crowds, “Well, there you are! Where on earth have you been?”

“Oh my god.” John swallowed and looked at Moran, “You brought Moriarty?!”

“Moriarty brought _me_.”

“Oh, no.” John looked around carefully, but he didn’t see any sign of Sherlock.

“Come on, you, he’s not going to bite.”

“Oh, poor Sherlock.” John shook his head.

“Misha! My favourite doctor!” He had no time to brace himself before he was grabbed, kissed, and hugged by a cheerfully inebriated Jim Moriarty. “Well, don’t you just look absolutely _smashing_ in that costume!”

“Hi, Vic,” John grunted. “Lovely to see you.”

“Where’s Sherlock? You convinced him to come along?”

“I did, he’s … somewhere around here. I’m fairly certain he hasn’t skipped out of here, but I can’t promise anything.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that! If he’s still around, he’ll find us! If he went home, that’s all right with me!”

“How much have you had to drink, then?”

“Enough, apparently, to put him in a _very_ good mood.” Moran rolled his eyes, “Don’t question your good luck, John.”

“I didn’t plan on it.” He chuckled, “Well, I wasn’t actually expecting to see anyone I knew tonight, but I don’t mind the company of friends.”

“Are we friends?”

“I should certainly hope we’re friends!” John raised an eyebrow as he took a sip of his drink and looked at Moriarty, who really did cut quite a dashing, sinister figure in a red-and-black costume reminiscent of a Victorian villain.

“Er, nice costume, Vic. Jack the Ripper?”

“Yep.”

“I approve!” John looked at Moran, who just grinned and put an arm around his shoulders.

As the infamous Victorian serial killer, Moriarty wore a black Inverness dress coat (very similar in style to Sherlock’s), black period-appropriate leather lace-up boots, a red silk waistcoat with a subtle but beautiful floral jacquard pattern, a white high-collar dress-shirt with a hand-tied black silk cravat pinned with a gold-and-ruby tie tack, black trousers carefully tailored, and a pair of white gloves. The crowning touch, however, was a delightfully macabre wooden cane, the shaft stained black and topped with a heavy, leering human skull done in silver with red gemstone eyes.

Moran wore a costume reminiscent of the Army’s old khaki uniforms worn in the Victorian era, complete with a pith-helmet and Sam Browne belt, black riding boots, gauntlet gloves, and even an old-fashioned “swagger stick”.

John hadn’t expected to run into anyone he knew at the gala, let alone one of his most reliable resources for keeping Sherlock busy, but he certainly had no objection to seeing Moriarty again or spending the rest of the evening with them, as Moriarty all but insisted that John keep them company. Well, keep _him_ company, more like.

“You really are one of a kind, Misha. Almost too good for the rest of us.”

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself!” John smiled and patted Moriarty on the shoulder, “I get that enough from Sherlock, I don’t need two of you doing it.”

“But it’s _true_! You really are! You’re … special! There’s something about you that’s just … no one else is like you at all.”

“I’m not special, I’m boring. I’m normal, boring, predictable John Watson.”

“Oh, stop it, you.” That got him a hard look. “You are clever, selfless, utterly fearless, endearingly sassy, and it’s a bloody shame you’re still on the single’s market.”

“Hard to keep a girlfriend when I’ve got Sherlock Holmes as a flatmate. He hates the competition.”

“Hard to keep a girlfriend when you’re just lying to yourself because someone told you the way you felt was wrong.”

“Not gay.”

“Of course you’re not gay.” Moriarty grinned, “But _I_ certainly am!”

“Poor Molly Hooper.”

“She’s such a dear girl, isn’t she? Just an angel, love that girl to death.” Moriarty sighed, “Hate to break that poor thing’s heart, though, she really is a sweet thing.”

“She can do so much better.”

“Tell me something I _don’t_ know. I’m no good for her, I don’t even _like_ girls, and she should know better than to go mooning after Sherlock.”

“Poor man’s had his heart shredded, and unfortunately he’s about as straight as you are.” John sniffed, “Which reminds me.”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t you dare break that poor boy’s heart again, or so help me not even Mycroft Holmes will know what’s become of you.” He looked at Moran, who just raised an eyebrow. “I’ll finish the job Moran started and has kept someone else from finishing because he had a change of heart. Lucky for us he did, but you know I have no problem pulling the trigger for Sherlock’s sake.”

“And I have more respect for both of you than that.” Moriarty looked sad, “I never meant to hurt him, John. You have to know that, you have to believe me.”

“Well, I still haven’t outed you to him yet, he has absolutely no idea. But he adores the cases you drop on us, they’re his favourites.” John smiled a bit. “Nothing else is ever as interesting, and he complains about the “boring cases” when we get one. Although the case we landed involving Irene Adler is certainly one of the most interesting cases we’ve seen in a while.”

“Oh, how did that go? I forgot to ask.”

“She drugged Sherlock, stole the phone back, and escaped out a bathroom window just before the police arrived. We haven’t seen or heard from her since then.”

“Oh, that’s a shame! I was hoping you’d get to have a bit of fun with that!”

“Something tells me we haven’t quite seen the last of Miss Adler.” John shrugged, “Is there anything about her I should know before she reappears in our lives?”

“Well, she’s not quite who she says she is.”

“Big bloody surprise there.”

“I will, however, be having words with Miss Adler about the way she treated you two that day.”

“Oh, so she is one of yours?” John was absolutely _not_ surprised. “I thought she might be.”

“The only person who gets to win Sherlock Holmes’s affections is me, and no one, absolutely _no one_ else is allowed to touch him.”

“I’ll let you two work that out between yourselves.” John thought he spied Sherlock through the crowds but didn’t think much of it.

“She always was the jealous sort, to be quite frank.”  Moriarty said calmly, “Starry-eyed as a child, dogged my steps and spent every waking hour she could with me, but when she reached her maturity, we became friendly rivals.”

“Friendly … rivals?” This was all news to him, and there was certainly something about this relationship he wasn’t aware of just yet. “How do you know each other?”

“Irene is my sister. She and I were the only two who survived the fire that killed the rest of our family. I was nine, she was four.”

“She and Richard must have been twins.”

“Yes, they were. We managed to stay together until she turned thirteen and I was eighteen and went to university. After that, I lost track of her for quite a long time.”

“And now she makes a living sexually humiliating people who pay for her services.” John wished he could say he was at all surprised, but he really wasn’t.

“Please try to keep her from making too much trouble, will you?”

“What makes you think we’re going to be able to get to her like that?”

“Just try?”

“I promise absolutely nothing, but I refuse to let her get away with toying with Sherlock’s feelings. Flirting with Sherlock Holmes, absolutely off the table.”

“At least we agree on that much.”

“Oh, that’s not the only thing we agree on.”John stared into his empty glass, “Oh, I hate doing that.”

“Doing what?”           

“I don’t pay attention and the next thing I know, my drink’s gone.”

“I can fix that.” Moriarty took his empty glass and disappeared with it, “Be right back!”

“Where is he going?”

“He’s not going to spike your drink, Ducky. Stand down.” Seb murmured. John bristled at the casual mention of a very old nickname.

“You know I hate it when you call me that in public!”

“More or less than being called Johnny?”

 “Fuck off.”

“Aw, you don’t mean that!”

“Christ I hate you sometimes, Tiger.”

“I love you, too, Ducky.”

“Please don’t call me that,” John muttered, knowing damn well his face was bright red with embarrassment. Moran chuckled and the arm around his shoulders slid up and lay around his neck, tugging him closer to the taller blond.

“I’m sorry, John, I know you hate that nickname. But someone’s gotta pick on you.”

“You’re lucky I love you, Seb. You’re almost worse than Sherlock sometimes.”

“I knew you did.” Moran just smiled and nuzzled his cheek. 

“Seb.”

“Hmm?”

“Public place?”

“Oh, nobody cares. Besides, not like I kissed you or anything, is it?”

“Christ, you’re impossible.” He huffed, shaking his head a little. But he didn’t mean it in a cruel way, he meant it lovingly. He’d forgotten that Moran could be downright affectionate, even sentimental if he was in the right mood.

“I _missed_ you, John Watson.” The words were so softly spoken John nearly missed them altogether. “Until you crossed JM’s radar in January, I hadn’t heard your name in almost nine months. Maybe longer than that. Anyone who did know where you were wasn’t talking.”

“Well, did you ask?”

“Of course I asked!”

“Who did you talk to?” He looked over at Moran. None of the lads would have closed ranks against Moran, they all knew better than that. Any of his civilian associates would have, though.

“Does it matter?”

“Absolutely! Who did you ask? Who did you reach out to?” He had to know. “Because I guarantee Murray and any of the lads would have given me up in a heartbeat.”

“I did ask Murray, but I didn’t ask him first. I wasn’t sure any of them would _want_ to talk to me.”

“Then you asked someone from outside. Who did you ask? Stamford?”

“Er, no.”

“Oh, no. You did _not_ reach out to my _sister_.”

“I didn’t know who else to _talk_ to.”

“Oh, Seb, why did you even bother?” John sighed, “You _know_ what Harry thinks of you!”

“Desperate times, son.”

“I can’t begin to imagine what awful, hateful things she said to you.”

“She told me it was my fault you’d almost died in Afghanistan and she would do whatever it took to keep her little brother safe from me.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. I am so sorry, Seb.”

“My next stop was your father, he was a little … less hostile than your sister.”

“I bet he was. He always liked you, I imagine he was willing to give you the information you were looking for.”

“He absolutely did.” Moran smiled, “Know what your old man told me last time I talked to him?”

“Knowing my dad? I can only imagine.”

“He looked me dead in the eye, put both hands on my shoulders, and said in the sternest voice I’ve heard since I was a young regular just out of basic, “Colonel Moran, when you find my son, I want you to do one thing for me. Just one.””

“And you said “Yes, sir?””

“He said “Take care of my son. The way you used to. I know what that boy was to you, you treat my son like a prince.” All I could do was agree. What could I say to him?”

“Oh, Dad.” John smiled, looking up at Moran, “He always did know things I never had the heart to tell him. He likes to say he just knows what’s important to me and will support me in whatever that is.”

“What’s in your head, Watson?”

“Wondering what it would take to get you out of this little funk of yours.” He closed the small distance still between him and Moran by simply turning to face him fully. “I used to know what worked, wondering if it would work here.”

“Would what work?”

“This.” John murmured, sliding his hand around to the back of Moran’s neck, his fingers finding their way into the short strands concealed under the helmet and tightening just a bit.

“Come here, you tall idiot.”

“Your tall idiot?”

“I sure hope so. I don’t like sharing.”

“Mm. You might have a problem, because JM doesn’t like to share, either.” That got him a crooked grin.

“I think I can handle Jim Moriarty,” John smirked. “Don’t worry about anything, Seb, I’ll take care of you.”

“Really?” Oh, the hope in his eyes. John just nodded.

“I. Promise.” He said firmly.

“This is real? This is happening?”

“This is happening. Now, come here.”

“Yes, please.” Moran leaned closer, his head dropping forward under the gentle pressure applied. The sound Moran made when they finally kissed was soft and heartbreaking, but John was there to hold him, to ground him to the now. He was there to keep the kiss soft and intimate when Moran got desperate.  Finally, he pulled back and looked up, smiling at the glazed, confused expression on Moran’s face.

“W-why did you stop?”

“Because we both need to breathe, and you were about to get lost in your head. I love you, but you’re useless if you’re stuck up here all night.” He tapped on Moran’s forehead, “Stay here with me for now, Tiger. Okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’ll … try. I’m sorry, Jack, I didn’t even realize I was doing that.”

“That’s okay, I’m here to make sure you don’t do it while there are far better and more enjoyable pursuits to be had.”

“Such as?”

“Well, I think we’ve given the rest of the patrons enough of a show, for now, I’d rather we didn’t get booted for public indecency.”

“It’s a _kiss_.”

“Between two gentlemen. Two fully-consenting gentlemen, of course, but I guarantee there are plenty of people who don’t appreciate public displays of affection between homosexual couples.”

“We’re a couple?”

“My dad seems to think we still are.”

“I always liked your dad. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, holds the key to some of the most crucial state secrets and wouldn’t say a word under duress.”

“No, sir.” John smiled. “He wouldn’t even tell us who Miss Adler’s client was, but I know a few potential targets.”

“If she’s _smart_ , Adler will stop playing dirty with that bloody phone.”

“She won’t, though, she loves the thrill as much as Vic does.” John made a face. “No wonder, if she’s his little sister.”

“Unfortunately for London.”

“And the Americans.”

“The Americans are an entirely incompetent lot, don’t waste your pity on them,” Seb muttered, clearly nonplussed with the Americans Baker Street had crossed paths with last month.

“I’ll worry about the indiscretions of Miss Adler when it comes back to my attention.” John looked around the room, keeping an eye out for either of their dark-haired consultants. “Which it undoubtedly will.”

“Oh, of course, it will!” Moran smiled. “Can I bother you for another kiss, Captain?”

“Well.”

“Please?”

“Oh, very well. Just don’t get us kicked out of here, will you?” John matched Moran’s smile and gave him another kiss.

“Ugh. I can’t leave you two alone for five minutes, can I?”

 John and Moran broke apart and John giggled. Adults weren’t supposed to giggle, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Well, I don’t know about anyone else, but I think we’ve properly scandalized your boss, Seb.” He beamed at his partner and looked over his shoulder at a highly amused Jim Moriarty, “I would apologize, Mr Moriarty, but I’m afraid it would be entirely insincere.”

“Don’t you dare apologize!” Moriarty held out a glass with a bright smile. “I’m not going to stop you! By all means, whatever makes you happy!”

“Makes you a better man than almost ninety per cent of the people at this gala, sir.”

“Please don’t call me that? Please don’t call me “sir” or “Mr Moriarty”, it’s so _formal_!”

“You asked me to call you Victor, didn’t you?”

“And you’ve been very good about it, Misha!” Moriarty handed another glass to Seb and draped his arm around John’s shoulders, planting a wet kiss on John’s cheek. “You keep this one safe, Sebby, he’s really one of a kind!”

“I plan on it, sir,” Moran promised, taking a sip of the drink Moriarty had given him.

“So, any sign of our errant detective while I was away?”

“No, sir. He’ll surface, though, if I know anything about Sherlock Holmes.” John mused, looking around the crowded foyer.

“John!”

“Speak of the handsome devil,” Moran muttered. “There he is.”  John looked over his shoulder at the sound of his name. He didn’t miss Moran and Moriarty switching places as Sherlock threaded his way through the crowd that stood between them, but he knew Sherlock hadn’t caught Moriarty getting cosy with John.

“John!”

“I haven’t quite abandoned you to this mess of humanity, Sherlock, just calm down.”

“I thought you might have gone home, but I met Bill Tanner and he reassured me you had done no such thing.” His skittish flatmate joined them. “He said you’d run into an old friend of yours from the service and disappeared with him.”

“Well, he wasn’t wrong.”

“But you have a recognizable costume, I haven’t seen anyone else here who looks a thing like you, so it’s rather difficult to _lose_ you in this crowd. Though, I have managed that before.”

“In my defence, Sherlock, you have a terrible habit of running off and leaving me to catch up.” John handed his glass to Sherlock. “My stride isn’t nearly as long as yours, you seem to forget that sometimes.”

“Oh, be nice to the poor man, Misha.” Moriarty scolded, “And mind your manners.”

“Seb, please shut up.” John glared at Moran, who snickered. “Poison your coffee for that, you bastard.”

“Oh, you love me.”

“Do I? Do I really?” He sniffed and looked at Sherlock, who wasn’t sure what to make of this and could not for the life of him stop _staring_ at Moriarty. He had clearly recognized him, and John had a fairly good idea who Sherlock had been reminded of.

“Sherlock, I’d like to introduce you to two of my dear friends. Colonel Sebastian Moran, who served above me in Afghanistan and has been a friend when I needed one.” John looked at Moriarty, who was giving Sherlock a quiet, knowing look but made eye-contact with John and nodded. “And this is Jim Moriarty.”

“I know who you are.” Sherlock said softly, holding one hand out to Moriarty, “I was a little startled when I spotted you in the crowds, I thought you were someone else at first.”

“Oh? What made you think such a thing?”

“Your costume, Mr Moriarty, it’s … quite familiar to me. I’ve only known one other man who wore that costume, but that was ten years ago.” Sherlock looked at Moriarty from under the brim of the deerstalker, his eyes grey and sad, “I must have been mistaken, there is no way you could possibly be him.” John looked at Moran as Sherlock and Moriarty sized each other up. It wasn’t his place to say anything, despite knowing everything about the matter.

“What, I wonder, would people say if they caught us keeping each other company tonight?” Moriarty asked with a sweet smile, nothing threatening about it.

“I could care less for the opinion of the public, my business is none of theirs.”

“That’s my boy.” Moriarty chuckled. “Captain Watson ensures me that my little puzzles are among your favourite cases.”

“Absolutely. Not … that anyone else is aware of the link between them.” Sherlock said with a sniffle. “Unobservant morons the lot of them.”

“Well, not _all_ of them, surely?”

“ _Most_ of them.” He amended. “If you knew anything useful about Philip Anderson, you would think just as poorly of him as I do, Mr Moriarty.”

“Oh, please, don’t call me that.” Moriarty made a face.

“Call you … what?”

“Please don’t call me “Mr Moriarty”, it’s so _formal_!”

“What am I supposed to call you, then?” Sherlock asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Well, I suppose you could call me whatever you felt like, within reason.” Moriarty smiled again, look up to make eye-contact with Sherlock, “But if you insist on something to call me, call me … Victor.” Well, _that_ was a gutsy move. He had practically outed himself to Sherlock doing that! John reached out one hand in case Sherlock reacted poorly.

“Steady on, Sherlock.” He said quietly. “Stay with us, now. Come on.” Sherlock, if he wasn’t mistaken, was about to go off-line. John recognized the body-language, the signs. He had already had one moment of low-key hysterics, John wasn’t sure he could afford a second in the same night. And this was no place at all for Sherlock to shut down.

“Stay here, Billy, stay with me.” Moriarty took Sherlock’s hands in his, squeezed, “Don’t lose your focus.”

“Sherlock.” John applied specific pressure to Sherlock’s left shoulder, his free hand bracing the tall brunet’s elbow. “Sherlock, it’s alright. Breathe, mate.” The last thing he needed was Sherlock passing out because he’d forgotten how to breathe. That had happened, at least once before. Thankfully, Sherlock came to himself with a sharp inhale. An anguished gasp as he struggled to refocus after that momentary lapse of awareness.

“Easy, Sherlock. Breathe, mate, take a deep breath.” John coached. Spying a nearby bench, he tugged on Sherlock’s elbow. “Come on, sit down. Sit down before you fall over. Come on, this way. Vic, help me?”

“Absolutely.” Moriarty was quick to get up on Sherlock’s other side and they steered Sherlock towards the vacant bench. Getting him sat down didn’t take long, and as soon as he was settled, Moriarty dropped to his knees in front of Sherlock, looking up earnestly at the other man.

“Oh my god.” Sherlock breathed out, “Oh my god. Victor?”

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock, I hope you understand. It was for your sake I never … ”

“I don’t! What happened? You were dead! I … I went to your funeral!”

“You didn’t identify my body, though?”

“No, they wouldn’t … they wouldn’t let me see you before the funeral. Said you weren’t fit to view or something. But then … ”

“They gave me an open casket funeral. You said something beautiful about me, I thought it was quite lovely.”

“You were there.”

“I was. Me and Seb. No one really noticed us, though.”  Moriarty shook his head. “I disappeared right after, spent … oh, six months hiding in Northern Ireland?”

“All this time?”

“All this time.”

“Can we … er …  ” Sherlock looked around, “We need to get out of here. We can’t talk about this here. It’s not … safe, it’s too public.”

“We need somewhere safe to go.” John was thinking the same thing, “But I don’t know if it would be wise to return to Baker Street.”

“Why not?”

“Because your brother has no less than six cameras on Baker Street, and Christ knows how many _inside_.”

“Messing with cameras is child’s play, John.” Sherlock shook his head, “I’ve disabled most of the cameras inside the flat.”

“Don’t worry about unfriendly eyes on Baker Street tonight, boys.” Moriarty smiled and got to his feet, holding out one hand to Sherlock. “Let’s go home, shall we? I’ve about had my fill of society for the evening and there are things to be discussed.”

“Baker Street?”

“Baker Street. Come along, dear Holmes.” And that was that. Without another word, they made the implicit decision to return to Baker Street and took their leave of the gala. Anyone who saw them leave did nothing to stop them. Not that anyone had a reason to stop them.

 

Moran drove them back to Baker Street, they managed to get in without drawing out Mrs Hudson, and John was careful to secure both doors into the flat after calling down that they were home for the evening and not to be disturbed.

“Are you boys alright? You weren’t gone very long at all!” She stood on the landing and looked up. John glanced over his shoulder and shook his head.

“It was a bit more overwhelming than Sherlock anticipated. I thought it best to get him out of that situation and bring him home as soon as possible.”

“Oh, dear. What happened?”Mrs Hudson’s expression became deeply concerned.

“Someone mentioned Victor Trevor.”

“Oh, poor Sherlock! Well, you boys just take a night in and let me know if you need anything!” Mrs Hudson turned to go back downstairs, “I take it no one is to be admitted?”

“Please and thank you, Mrs Hudson. You’re welcome to take messages, but we won’t be taking any visitors.”

“Of course. Good night, dear!” She waved and disappeared into A, making sure to make just enough noise closing her door for them to know she had turned in for the night. God bless Mrs Hudson, she was far too good to them. John locked up the flat and debated tea or something stronger. Moran took care of that by providing two glasses of wine and two glasses of whiskey.

 

It was quiet for a while as they sat together and nursed their drinks. It was an expectant, tense sort of quiet the likes of which John and Seb had gotten used to in Afghanistan. Sherlock sat in his grey chair, Moriarty sat in John’s chair, and the two simply maintained eye-contact without saying a word. It was interesting to watch the dynamic between the two, and heartbreaking. Ten years stood between them, so much time and so many experiences had changed them both. Was there anything left, John wondered, of Victor and Billy? Or had those hopeful, brilliant young men been lost forever to the much older, more cynical Jim and Sherlock? That thought depressed him, and he wanted to find some way to make things right again. If there was such a thing.

 

Finishing his whiskey, John took Moran’s empty glass and retreated to the kitchen, rinsing the glasses out and putting the kettle on for tea. Moran came through a few minutes later with the wine-glasses and a small duffel over one shoulder as he leaned against the range, waiting for the water to boil. Depositing the glasses in the sink, he looked at John gave a familiar signal he hadn’t seen in years and certainly hadn’t expected to see again in London. Nodding to show he’d received the message and understood, John quickly rinsed the wine glasses and fixed two cups of tea.

 

Once everything was ready, he took the cups out and gave one to Sherlock and one to Moriarty. John knew there were things that needed to be said, but he wasn’t sure if he and Moran actually needed to be around for that delicate conversation. It was deeply personal, between Moriarty and Sherlock, and he understood that he didn’t _have_ to know everything.

“You two have a lot to talk about, so we’ll leave you to it.”

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said quietly, holding his cup in both hands, not making eye-contact.

“Call Seb or I if you need anything, Sherlock’s got my number and I _know_ Seb has Jim’s.”

“Of course, Doctor Watson.” Moriarty smiled, “Thank you so much.”

“Take care of him, will you?” John looked over at Sherlock, who wasn’t looking at any of them. “It’s been hard on him.”

“I will. I owe it to him.”

“Good. Well, I’m off, then.” John excused himself and headed for his room. He traded his costume for street-clothes and took a minute to pack an overnight bag. He tossed in a second change of clothes, the book on his bedside table, and his toothbrush. Once he was packed for spending some time away from Baker Street, John stopped by the sitting-room and found Moriarty sitting in his chair while Sherlock had moved into the kitchen. He didn’t disturb them, he just closed the door again and made sure it was locked. Then he met Moran downstairs and they left Baker Street together.

* * *

* * *


	7. Crazy Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes have a quiet evening to themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The same kissing-scene and conversation I used for Seb and John at the Gala is used here, with the necessary changes made.

* * *

* * *

Jim Moriarty waited until the sitting-room door had closed, the lock clicking into place, before he got to his feet and went to the window to watch the street. He watched John Watson and Sebastian Moran appear on the street, heads together as they talked, he saw both men turn and look up at the first-floor windows before getting into the car parked along the kerb. He had guessed they might decide to take a night out, seeing what circumstances had brought the four of them back to Baker Street in the first place. Their willingness to provide necessary and unasked for privacy was deeply appreciated. As soon as the Jag was out of sight, he turned from the window again and looked across the sitting-room towards the kitchen.

 

Standing in the doorway, almost too tall for the frame, and skinny as he’d ever been, dark hair a riot of curls tamed back for his Halloween costume, his eyes storm-ridden lapis oceans, was his Billy. Not the same young thing he’d fallen in love with all those long years ago, but still the same man. Battered and scarred by time and misfortunes, bad decisions, and making a living on the meanest London streets solving the crimes no one else could make sense of. But it was _him_. Jim straightened slowly, almost afraid of startling the other man, and took a deep breath. Instead of saying anything, Jim crossed the sitting-room and stopped a safe distance away. Within reach but not intruding on Sherlock’s personal space as he studied the tall, bewildered man in front of him.

 

Sherlock had always been the taller of the two of them, he always would be, just this side of too skinny for his own good, dark hair a riot of curls. He remembered it being a different colour when they had been in university together, not quite so dark as it was now. He knew it was silly to think that ten years wouldn’t have changed someone like Sherlock Holmes, especially considering the circumstances that had seen the two of them separated so violently for so long. He was sad to see how much _had_ changed in ten years, how far Sherlock had fallen from the promise of their younger days. His clothes were clean and carefully tailored, of course, but Jim knew better. Those beautiful hands scarred and stained by the toil of solving crime and running experiments. The way he looked at Jim was truly heartbreaking, as if unsure of how real Jim really was, if he was imagining what he saw or not. Jim was not a man of deep compassion, but there would always be a special place in his heart for Sherlock Holmes.

 

He was behind Sherlock when the other man spoke up.

“You’re doing that out loud, did you know that?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re deducing everything you see about me and talking to yourself. I thought I was the only one who did that.” Sherlock turned his head but didn’t look at him. “Come face me, I don’t like people standing behind me like that.”

“You don’t mind when John stands behind you.” He said quietly, moving as requested, “And you certainly didn’t mind when I stood behind you when we were in university together. Do you remember those days, Sherlock Holmes?”

“What I see and what my mind is telling me is similar but different, and my heart says I’m not imagining.” Sherlock murmured, studying him once they were face-to-face. Jim remained silent, there was nothing he _could_ say. Instead, he stepped forward, closed the distance between them, and touched Sherlock’s hand. When that careful contact was not rejected, he went further, sliding his hand along the sleeve of Sherlock’s jacket, keeping eye-contact all the time. They were so close they were practically pressed together, he could feel the tremors running through the tall drink of detective and took one hand in his. The poor thing was so nervous, so scared.

“If you are a fake, you’ve certainly done your homework,” Sherlock whispered hoarsely after a few minutes of silent study.

“That’s my Billy Boy.” Jim smiled, a real smile, and looked up to meet Sherlock’s wide, startled gaze. “But what if I’m not? What if I’m not a fake, what if this isn’t your imagination playing with you? Just this once, what if you’re not seeing things?” With hesitant, uncertain fingers, Sherlock reached out for him, eventually making contact. And Jim let him. Let him touch and inspect to his heart’s content.

“Victor?” A broken utterance of a name he hadn’t heard in ten years, hope and hesitation causing his voice to waver.  

“Yes, Billy.” Here, in this house, in this moment, he was _not_ Jim Moriarty. He was Victor Trevor. He would be whoever and whatever Sherlock needed him to be, whenever he needed him to be there.

“Why, you haven’t aged a day!” Sherlock threw both arms around him and held him tight. “Oh, God, I’ve missed you!”

“I know you have, my dear.” He soothed, “I know you have. And I’ve missed you terribly, it’s been quite miserable without you.” Sherlock looked at him and smiled, but it wasn’t a true smile.

 

When Sherlock pulled away, Jim let him go. No sense in overwhelming the poor man, was there? Sherlock didn’t sit down again, though. Instead, he went to the window and stood looking out over Baker Street. Jim could practically hear the wheels turning and watched the tall genius.

“What’s on your mind, Billy?”

“I’m just wondering.”

“About?”

“I just want to know one thing.” Sherlock looked at him curiously. “Why? Why did you disappear from my life? Why did you leave me?”

“Because a power of influence over your happiness that I couldn’t challenge gave me an “or else” ultimatum.”

“Mycroft.” There was no question in the tone of Sherlock’s voice as he spoke his brother’s name. “That meddling, interfering _bastard_!”

“I am _so_ sorry, Billy Boy, I never, ever wanted you to hurt like that.” He said softly, reaching up to touch Sherlock’s cheek. “I was so _angry_ when I realized what had happened to you.”

“I knew my brother was cunning, but I would never have called him _cruel_!”

“Mycroft Holmes has always been merciless, cunning, and even ruthless.” Jim looked up at those beautiful lapis eyes, eyes he had missed so in the years he had been forced to watch from a distance. “I would use those words on myself, because I am no better than your brother, but I am not completely heartless.”

“No. You are clever, you are cunning, and resourceful. You are kind, and beautiful, and … and … ” Jim stepped up to press his hand to Sherlock’s lips and smiled.

“Easy, darling. Don’t get yourself so worked up.” He cooed, “I’m right here, and I don’t plan on going anywhere unless you send me away.”

“Please don’t leave me again, Vic,” Sherlock said in a soft, broken voice. “Can I … still call you that?”

“Of course you can! My full name is James Victor Moriarty.” Jim said as he moved his hand to Sherlock’s cheek, softer than it looked and yet so beautifully defined. “You can call me whatever you want, darling.”

“Okay.” Sherlock looked so sad. “I’m really not dreaming this time? This is real? This is happening?”

“You are not dreaming this time. I promise.” Jim smiled and leaned against the mantle, watching his old flame. “You always were the smart one, Billy.”

“That’s not what my brother says.”

“I don’t care what your brother says, and I don’t think he deserves the regard you give him.” Jim narrowed his eyes. “I know I told you to be nice to him, but you should be able to stand your ground when you need to.”

“Would you be terribly disappointed in me if I said I was only passive-aggressively nice to my brother?”

“Good enough for me! He is an idiot, though.”

“Hmph.”

“Oh, stop that.” Jim shook his head and went to stand next to Sherlock.

“Stop what?” Sherlock watched him, eyes narrow and thoughtful. “I’m not doing anything, am I?”

“You are. You’re doing it again. Stop that.” He murmured, sliding his hand around to the back of Sherlock’s neck, his fingers finding their way into the soft curls and tightening just a bit.

“Come here, you tall idiot.”

“Your tall idiot?”

“I sure hope so. I don’t like sharing.”

“Mm. You might have a problem, because John doesn’t like to share, either.” That got him a crooked grin.

“I think I can handle John Watson,” Jim smirked. “Don’t worry about anything, Billy Boy, I’ll take care of you.”

“Really?” Jim just nodded.

“I. Promise.” He said firmly. “Now, come here.”

“Yes, please.” Sherlock leaned closer, his head dropping forward under the gentle pressure applied. The sound Sherlock made when they finally kissed was soft and heartbreaking, but Jim was there to hold him, to ground him to the now. He was there to keep the kiss soft and intimate when Sherlock got desperate.

 

Finally, he pulled back, smiling at the glazed, confused expression on Sherlock’s face.

“W-why did you stop?”

“Because we both need to breathe, and you were about to get lost in your head. I love you, but you’re useless if you’re stuck up here all night.” He tapped on Sherlock’s forehead, “Stay here with me for now, Billy. Okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’ll … try. I’m sorry, Vic, I didn’t even realize I was doing that.”

“That’s okay, I’m here to make sure you don’t do it while there are far better and more enjoyable pursuits to be had.”

“Such as?”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind taking you out to dinner somewhere nice, just the two of us.”

“No bodyguards?”

“Well, no Seb. There’s always someone keeping an eye on me, making sure some ruffian doesn’t try to finish the job your brother started.”

“I still can’t believe he would _do_ something like that!” Sherlock frowned, shaking his head. “I mean, I _can_ , but I can’t believe he would do it to _me_! To _us_! He knew how important you were to me!”

“I think his job was more important at the moment, darling.” Jim smiled sadly, “Don’t think too hard about that, I’m right here. Now, go freshen up and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Okay. Don’t go anywhere without me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.” He leaned up and kissed Sherlock on the cheek, giving him a shove in the direction of the bathroom. As soon as he heard the water run, he retrieved his overcoat and cane before going downstairs, picking up his hat as well.

While he waited for Sherlock at the bottom of the stairs, Mrs Hudson emerged from her flat to keep him company. He was a little hesitant around the clever woman who kept 221 Baker Street, but he wasn’t afraid of her. It was more that he _respected_ her, she was not a woman to be trifled with.

“Off for the night then, are you boys?” She asked with a smile. Jim looked up the stairs as he heard Sherlock moving around a bit.

“Mm. Not quite sure what we’ll _do_ , but I doubt we’ll be terribly bored.”

“Oh, not the likes of you two!” Mrs Hudson chuckled, “You just take good care of that boy, Mr Moriarty.”

“I will, Mrs Hudson.  And please, call me Victor.”

“Victor?”

“James Victor Moriarty is the whole of it, and Sherlock’s always called me that.”

“Well, that’s alright then!” She grinned as Sherlock came trotting down the stairs. “Victor! You seem to be more of a Victor than a James, don’t you?”

“I never did like being called that, even when I was a lad.”

“Then I won’t! I don’t suppose I could get away with calling you Jim?”

“Call me whatever you like, Mrs Hudson! You can call me whatever you like!” He shrugged into his coat and looked at Sherlock as he reached the hallway, “Now if you’ll excuse me, Mrs Hudson, I’m stealing your tenant for the evening. All I promise is to return him in like condition, but probably not tonight.”

“Oh, that’s alright! I wasn’t expecting you two to keep an old woman like me company all night, you go have fun!” She waved them off, ushering them to the door once they were both ready to go out again.

“Good night, boys!”

“Good night, Mrs Hudson!” They called back as Sherlock summoned a cab and held the door for him.

“Mr Moriarty?”

“Thank you, Mr Holmes.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand as he ducked into the car and gave the driver an address once the tall detective had joined him. They got away with holding hands, but that was as far as either of them went during the drive from Baker Street to their final destination. And that was more than fine with Jim. They had a lot of adjusting to do, some learning to be done. They hadn’t seen each other in ten years, it would take a while to get back into the comfortable intimacy they had shared for so long. But the way Jim saw it, they had some time to dedicate to that. He decided to worry about _that_ later, right now he would much rather focus on spoiling his adorably awkward boyfriend.

 

When they got to the restaurant, one of Sherlock’s regular haunts in fact, he got out first, held the door for Sherlock, and paid the fare.

“What are we doing _here_?” Sherlock looked up at the awning of the restaurant, a little confused.

“It may not be the _nicest_ or most expensive restaurant in London, but it’s one of your favourites. Besides, I hear the food here is actually quite good.”

“Oh, Angelo is going to be _thrilled_. We’ll never hear the end of it!” Sherlock smiled and held the door for him. Or would have, if some watchful waiter hadn’t spotted them and come to open the door _for_ them.

“Evening, Mister Holmes!”

“Hello, Billy.” Sherlock gave the lad a smile, “Is Angelo in?”

“Oh, yes, sir! And your table’s ready for you, sir! This way!”

“Ah, thank you, Billy!”

“Can I take your coats, gentlemen?” The lad asked helpfully. Jim looked at Sherlock for direction, this was his arena. Sherlock nodded, so they handed over their coats as they were shown to a small table by the windows. Sherlock sat facing the windows, Jim watched the restaurant, but they mostly paid attention to each other. It was actually quite intimate, Jim liked it.

They were by no means the only people in the restaurant wearing a costume in the spirit of the holiday, and he wondered how many of these patrons were seeking a quiet place to unwind after a function the way he and Sherlock had. They chatted for a bit before they were greeted by a burly, boisterous half-Italian man who threw his arms around Sherlock and hauled him out of his chair as he reached their table.

“Sherlock, my lad, it’s been ages! Where is that handsome flat-mate of yours?”

“Hello, Angelo.” Sherlock grunted, squirming, “John’s out with some of the lads tonight.”

“Well, that’s alright! Who’s this attractive gentleman, then?” Angelo, who must have been the owner of the place, gave Jim a close once-over, his eyes glowing. Jim rose to his feet, hand outstretched. He knew when to play nice, and this was definitely one of those moments.

“Victor, sir. Victor Moriarty.”

“Oh, well bless me! Aren’t you just a proper thing!” Angelo couldn’t have been happier as he dragged Jim into a stifling hug. Apparently, his name didn’t trigger any recognition. Well, no one knew who Victor Moriarty was, did they? No one knew, no one cared.

“Victor, you are  _welcome_ here!” He _hated_ it when people hugged him, too many chances to get a knife in him or distract him from some other trouble, but he didn’t get the feeling Angelo was a threat to him any more than Mrs Hudson had been. In fact, he would be happy to admit that he was more afraid of Mrs Hudson than he was of Angelo!

“Sit, boys, sit down!” Angelo exclaimed as he shuffled Jim back to his seat. “I’ll bring a candle for the table! Sit _down_!”

“Thank you, Angelo.” They said in unison, looking at each other across the table. As soon as Angelo was gone, chuckling and singing to himself, Jim burst out laughing.

“Oh my god! What was _that_?!”

“ _That_ was Angelo.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “He’s … very enthusiastic. I am so sorry.”

“Christ, I wasn’t expecting _that_ kind of reaction. Usually, someone hears my name and it’s “Yes, Mr Moriarty”, “How can I help you, Mr Moriarty”, not … _that_.”

“Angelo’s just like that sometimes, he doesn’t care what your name is or who you might be in the outside world. Here, you’re a customer and if you came in with me, you’re good as family.”

“I would _love_ to hear that story, there has to be quite a good one!” Jim smiled and stretched his feet out under the table, brushing against Sherlock’s ankles. That got his attention and he watched an eyebrow go up.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, nothing you mind. A little private intimacy isn’t going to get us thrown out of here, Billy.”

“Mm. You might have to come up with another nickname for me, I know at least two people of close acquaintance by that name.”

“Well, that’s fine with me! I only called you that because your parents did!”

“You called me that before you found out my parents did, too.” Sherlock sniffed, “Nothing _too_ embarrassing, please?”

“Oh, come on, let me have a _little_ fun?”

“I’m going to regret this.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and reached across the table. “Have at thee.”

“I can play nice!”

“Can you, though?”

“ _Trust_ me, darling!” He just smiled at Sherlock, who obviously didn’t. Well, that was fine, but he _would_ be smart about what he called Sherlock from now on.

* * *

* * *

 


	8. Mirror Stripes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes a night away from Baker Street, leaving Sherlock with JM to work things out between them. Seb has a few ideas about how to keep him occupied while he's out, a few rather creative ideas. John wasn't actually looking for a job, but Seb can't be arsed to care, he needs manpower and John needs a new job. Win-win for both of them, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John and Seb do the dirty here. And John lands a new job.

* * *

* * *

Once he had locked the door of Baker Street behind him, John caught up with Seb Moran out on the footpath.

“So. We’ve got a whole evening to ourselves.” He looked up at the sky. “I guess we should be grateful it’s going so well.”

“Mhm.” Seb was actually checking his phone. “Think we can trust those two to behave themselves?”

“I have faith in our idiot consultants to behave themselves.” He poked a thumb over his shoulder. “What does that say?”

“Not sure, but it can’t be all bad.” Seb pocketed his phone and looked at him.

“Well, where to? Can’t go back to mine, obviously.”

“Mine?”

“Sure. If you don’t think JM’s going to mind.”

“Doubt it. And even if they end up back at The Penthouse, it’s not going to matter.” Seb shrugged and they took the Jaguar for the evening. JM wasn’t going to need Seb’s services, he was effectively off-duty for now.

 

Thirty minutes later, Seb parked the Jag in an underground car-park. They were at Melrose Apartments. It wasn’t quite where he had expected someone like Jim Moriarty to live, but he knew that wherever Seb lived, that’s where Jim lived. Seb let him into the building and led the way to a penthouse flat that spanned two floors and consisted of five bedrooms, four bathrooms, an open sitting-room, and a small but sufficient galley-style kitchen.

“Interesting choice of headquarters.” He mused after peeking in on a control-room and an armoury. “Not exactly where I’d expect someone like Jim Moriarty to live.”

“This isn’t where people come to call on Mr Moriarty.”

“Mm. Not his only London residence. I like it.” John chuckled and noticed the presence of armed security. He’d counted eight so far, posted in different locations around the penthouse. That included the henchmen patrolling the outside catwalks. This may not be his “official” residence, but it was certainly well-defended. John wouldn’t be one bit surprised if biometric scanners had tagged him the instant he entered the building and he had been run through top-grade facial-recognition software. He’d undergone a thorough pat-down when he came into the flat, but his SIG had been quickly returned.

“Captain.” Seb’s voice got his attention. He looked over and saw Seb standing by the window.

“Sir?”

“Come with me.”

“Yes, sir.” When Seb Moran said “come with me”, you did. John obediently followed his old commanding officer back to the armoury. The door was locked behind them and John wondered what Seb had in mind. There were shelves of equipment, kit-lockers with names for each member of the on-site security team, and a “dressing-room” with spare uniform pieces that let into a full bath. Seb led him through the armoury into the dressing-room, where he took down different uniform pieces in a particular size, handing John a stack of folded black cotton-Kevlar blend.

“I take it you haven’t gone a size in either direction since you got out?”

“No, sir, I have not.”

“Get dressed, I’ll go finish supplying your kit.”

“Does this mean I get a kit-locker?”

“Yes, it does.” Seb gave him a sly smile and left him alone to get changed. He set aside his clothes in a neatly-folded stack before getting dressed in the uniform Seb had left for him. Everything from vest and pants to jacket, trousers, belt-system and boots, and he suspected an armoured vest was in his future. Once he was dressed, done in a series of familiar, almost automatic motions, he took his boots out to the armoury.

“Y’know I didn’t come here for a job, right?” He said as he sat down on one of the benches.

“Your flatmate is dating my boss, you’re working for me whether you like it or not.” Seb turned from an open kit-locker. John looked up as he tied on his boots.

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“He likes you, John. He really likes you, which I can’t say is true for everyone.”

“Guess that makes me special.”

“Oh, don’t be so modest.” Seb grinned and slammed the locker, coming over to where he was sitting. “You can look over your kit later. Right now, though, you’re all mine.” Oh, John knew what that meant. Christ he knew what that meant, and he’d be a fucking liar if he said he hadn’t missed it.

“How do you want me, Sir?” Well, didn’t that just slip right out?

“On your knees, Soldier. Hands behind your head and do not move until I say.”

“Yes, Sir.” John wasted absolutely no time slipping off the bench and going to his knees. He took a second to get comfortable, and laced his fingers together loosely behind his head, tilting his head back just a bit.

“Hmm.” Seb circled him like a predator circling its prey, nudging here, tugging there, getting John positioned just the way he wanted him. Just the hairy edge of discomfort, no further. Something for him to think about, worry about for a while. Carefully, he took first one hand and then the other, the jangle of metal the only warning John had before the cold of steel touched his wrists and the ratcheting click told him exactly what had been done. He gave his hands a shake, grinning as the chain rattled.

“Oh, you’re making this hard for me, aren’t you, Sir?”

“Have I ever made it easy for you, Soldier? Did I ever say I would make it easy for you?”

“No, Sir.” He looked up at Seb through his lashes, waiting for him to make the next move. A rustling of fabric and the sound of a zip being undone told him quite a bit and he unconsciously wet his lips, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip first. Yes. Seb touched his hair, fingers sliding through outgrown strands, making a disapproving sound at the length, and down along his temple, cheek, and jaw, tilting John’s head back further and holding him in place.

“You know the rules, Watson.” Grey eyes were intense. “Snap if you need to stop. Now, get to work.”

“Oh, yes, Sir.”

 

Seb was smart enough to sit down before giving John any orders, but that honestly made John’s job easier. Maintaining eye-contact with his old commander, someone he had looked up to for years, he got busy refamiliarizing himself with the half-erect cock that curled away from Moran’s stomach. He had forgotten and so took great pleasure relearning the taste, texture, and size. It was fantastic. He had always enjoyed this particular act but rarely ever engaged in it unless he was _very_ comfortable with his partner. Seb had made things a bit more interesting by handcuffing him so he couldn’t use his hands for leverage or extra stimulation, but John was definitely up for the challenge of pleasuring his commander by oral alone. It didn’t take long for him to remember the things that made the older man come undone and when those scarred fingers tightened in his hair, he chuckled. Difficult to do with a full mouth, and it served to stimulate his partner further, which earned him a sharp tug and some swearing.

“Impudent little shit.” Seb grunted as he retaliated by shoving the whole of his not-insignificant length into John’s open and willing mouth. John groaned, eyes rolling back as the tip nudged the back of his throat. He didn’t have much of a gag-reflex to start with and had gotten very good at putting it to bed when the occasion called for it years ago. Handy in his particular line of work, and damn useful in the bedroom.  Carefully, he swallowed around the thick, hot member that filled his mouth so pleasantly.

“Ooh, that’s right, Jackie, you don’t have a gag-reflex, do you?”  Seb murmured, fingers stroking through John’s hair almost like petting a cat, as he kept at his work. “Christ, what did we ever do to deserve you, son? What did _I_ do? Lucky me, I get Captain John Hamish Watson.” John pulled back with a wet, obscene slurp, pressing a kiss to the twitching head, which glistened red and dark as the foreskin had retracted under his willing and careful ministrations.

“Name’s not Jackie, Sir.” He said indignantly.

“It is now, son.” Seb rumbled, giving a reproving tug, “If I say your name is Jackie, your name is Jackie. If I say jump, _you_ say?”

“How high, sir?”

“Good boy. Now, back to work. And don’t make a mess.” Said with a gentle nudge against the back of his head, guiding him back to his original goal. John knew when to pick his fights, and on his knees in handcuffs with Sebastian Moran’s waiting cock in reach was definitely not the time for that. Deciding to pick that particular fight another day, John leaned forward, loosened his jaw, and took the whole of his commander in a few careful tries.

 

After a while, Seb held him still, told him not to move, and used him. And he took it without a fuss. He loved this part, honestly, it was a true test of how much he and Seb trusted each other. John just closed his eyes and let Seb have his way with him. When Seb pulled out until just the head was still between John’s teeth, he braced himself. He knew what was coming and held his breath. The bitterness flooded his mouth and he would normally have choked, but he knew how to do this. It had been a while, but there were just some things he never really forgot how to do. Once Seb was completely spent, he pulled out, pressed two fingers to the underside of John’s chin, and got to his feet. Going around, he removed the handcuffs.

“Spit, and get cleaned up. I’ll be waiting right here for you.” He said in a husky tone that was all the proof John needed to know he’d done the job right, and he retreated to the loo, where he spit in the toilet and flushed after lowering the lid. Then he rinsed out his mouth with mouthwash and brushed his teeth for good measure. Swallowing was not his favourite thing in the world, he _would_ if pressed or they forewent a condom, and it touched him that Seb had remembered that. Most partners would have forced him to swallow, or made a mess because he _wouldn’t_ , but Seb? Seb never humiliated him that way. He never had and he never would.

 

Once he had cleaned up, he went back out to the armoury. Seb was waiting for him, all put back together and proper, holding a drop-bag.

“This is for tonight. I’ll help you gear up.”

“Fine with me!” John smiled, smoothing down the front of his jacket.  Seb helped him kit up with a second pistol, this one a Browning L9A1, a Colt M16A2 rifle, the spare ammunition for both pistols and the rifle in four clips stowed in pouches, and a couple of knives in their sheath that were all attached to the duty-belt. And as he had suspected, that armoured vest was his.

“Not taking any chances?” He asked as Seb went over every inch of his gear, tugging on straps and buckles and making adjustments as necessary. That just got him a look.

“Son, the _last_ time I took a chance on you, I damn near about lost you,” Seb said tersely, giving one strap a particularly vindictive tug. “If you think for one minute I’m doing _that_ again, you are badly mistaken.” John said nothing as he reached up and took Seb’s hand in both of his. They were both geared up and both wore gloves, but that didn’t matter.

“Seb.” He said quietly, getting Seb’s attention. But Seb wouldn’t look at him. John recognized the stiffness in his jaw, the way he stood so still and so stiff, and sighed. Sherlock and Jim could burn the whole fucking city to the ground if they wanted to, Seb could care less about that right now. Endless time and energies had been spent on John, for an uncertain outcome and no recognition. He hadn’t known until too late, but he _knew_. That was so important.

“Hey, Tiger?” He whispered, knowing that would get the older man’s attention properly. Sad brown eyes lifted and he squeezed Seb’s hand.

“Hi.” He smiled, reaching out to touch Seb’s cheek.

“Ducky?” And there it was.

“Oh, there you are!” He chuckled, “Thought I’d lost you for a minute there. Where’d you go?”

“John, you can’t do that to me. Not ever again.” Seb finally made proper eye-contact with him. “Are we clear?”

“I can’t promise that, Seb, you know I can’t.” John said, shaking his head. “Especially if I’m running around London keeping Sherlock out of trouble.”

“Well, at least you’ll be in London doing stupid things and I can keep a better eye on you.”

“Yes, you certainly can.” He smiled. “Now, get out of your head before I drag you out.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Sir, I just went down on my knees to give you a blowjob five minutes ago. Trust me, I would absolutely dare.” He slid his hand around to rest on the back of Seb’s neck. “And don’t think for a second I would have any problem pulling that stunt in public.”

“Don’t you dare.” Seb’s voice dropped to a low growl. John just smiled and put gentle pressure against the back of Seb’s neck until he dropped his head, shutting him up pretty effectively with a kiss.

“Then don’t force me.” He said cheekily when he let go. Turning his back on Seb, he unlocked the door of the armoury and walked away, leaving him standing there with a dumbstruck expression on his face.

“Oh, _damn it_ , Watson!” Seb yelled, loudly enough for anyone outside the room to hear him in spite of the soundproofing.

“I’m not sorry!” He called back cheerfully.  The two men stationed outside the armoury and the control room traded a quick look with each other and then looked at John, who didn’t look much like he had about ten minutes ago. When Seb came storming out of the armoury behind him, the pair looked absolutely startled.

“Roberts! Tanner! What the hell are you two staring at?” He snapped, “Eyes in front, gentlemen, we don’t pay you to gawk and gossip! Back to work!”

“Yes, Colonel.” The pair stiffened up in no time.

“And _you_ ,” Seb glared at him.

“Yes, Colonel?”

“You’re  coming with _me_.”

“Yes, Colonel,”  John said cheerfully, tagging along after Seb as he went into the sitting-room and through to the patio. Back in the old days, that kind of behaviour would have gotten him a week of KP duty and another week on top of _that_ doing whatever little chores needed doing around the colonel’s office and tent. He might complain about being stuck on dish-duty or whatever else, but he _never_ complained about essentially being Seb’s personal errand-boy.

“Daniels! Regan! Back inside, you’re off for the night!” Seb barked as they stepped out into the chilly October night. “Get lost!”

“Yes, Colonel.” A couple of blokes in gear standing by the far railing turned and saluted Seb hastily.

“Watson and I will take over with Connor and Meredith until this shift is up, you two scram.”

“Yes, sir.” The pair exchanged a puzzled glance, it was obvious they had recognized John even in gear, and disappeared inside. Over the radio, Seb called back the other two posted to outside guard-duty and proceeded to _properly_ introduce John for once as soon as they had reported.

“Alright, gentlemen. There has been a last-minute adjustment to the arrangement and we’ve added to our presence.” He looked at each of them, making brief eye-contact with John. “This is John Watson. Yes, he is that John Watson, no he is not here to field your questions or explain himself. He is here because Mr Moriarty is now intimately involved with Baker Street, and because I can’t think of anyone better fit for this kind of job.”

“Sir.”  

“John, these louts are Geoffrey Connor and Dorian Meredith.”

“Gentlemen.” John offered them a polite nod.

“Sir.”

“With intros out of the way, down to business. For the duration of this shift, and potentially future shifts, Captain Watson will be my second and my lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.” They all nodded their understanding. They didn’t seem terribly bothered by the news, even though it kind of came as a surprise to John. Well, he could handle the distribution of the security detail, that much was easy for him.

“My orders will come from him, his word is final law, grievances may be aired to him and passed back to me through him. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Good. I’ll bring everyone else up to speed in the morning.” Seb looked right at John and gave a familiar signal he hadn’t seen in years and certainly hadn’t expected to see again in London. “Captain, you’re on the cat-walks tonight. Alternate rotations around the patio and cat-walks, call-ins every ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir.” John nodded and looked at the other two before following Seb. He took the north cat-walk, Meredith took the east cat-walk, and Seb split the patio with Connor. This was just like patrolling the boundary walls in Afghanistan, John knew a thing or two about night-duty and was happy to do it again, even if London _was_ worlds away from dusty, hostile Kandahar. It felt good to be in uniform again, to be doing the work he was actually very good at. He’d kind of missed it, so he wasn’t really interested in complaining about the arrangement. Even if he was on the payroll of the most dangerous man he’d ever met.

 

He knew a dangerous man when he met one, had lived and worked with and for several over his lifetime. Jim Moriarty was definitely in the top ranks of those he had encountered, but he didn’t feel threatened by Moriarty the way he knew he should. That was probably because when he looked at Moriarty, he didn’t see a clever criminal mastermind, he just saw someone making the best of a shitty hand dealt out to him by life. He saw the human element that so many people either missed or ignored completely, depending on which suited their views best, and made sure to respect the human element. Jim Moriarty was definitely a man worthy of John’s respect, and he would be happy to offer him that respect.

 

He was on duty long enough to see out the rest of Connor and Meredith’s shift, but when Seb asked if he’d had enough and would like a shot at inside duty, or even calling it a night, he said no thanks.

“I’ll take a cup of coffee and a cigarette, though.” He said with a sniffle as he looked up at the cloudy sky.

“Good old Watson.” Seb chuckled and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll go see about that coffee. Sit tight.”

“Not going anywhere, sir.” John shrugged and circled the patio once while he was gone. Seb returned with two cups of coffee and John took one of them, cradling it in both hands to bring a bit of warmth back into his fingers.

“Ugh.” He grimaced at the taste. “Well, still better than Kandahar Swill.” Seb snorted.

“What? You know I’m _right_.”

“Oh, no, I know. I’ve been trying to figure out what this tasted like for six months. Couldn’t quite put my finger on it, I just knew it wasn’t … ” he trailed off with a vague gesture.

“If you weren’t such a nice person, you’d dump the whole thing down the sink and blow up the coffee-maker?”

“And then line up the fucking idiot who ruined a perfectly good cup of coffee just by looking at it,” Seb muttered.

“Hope it wasn’t JM,” John said around another sip.

“Nope! He’s not allowed in the kitchen anymore after the last incident.”

“Oh? What’d he do?” John grinned at that, he was quite familiar with kitchen incidents. “Blow up a microwave? Leave a body-part where it had no business? Severed head in the fridge, perhaps?”

“No! He … wait a minute.” Seb trailed off and stared at him. “What?”

“What?”

“Did you just say … severed head in the _fridge_?”

“Yeah.”

“Like. A _human_ head?”

“Yep.”

“Jesus Christ. Where’d Holmes even _get_ one?!”

“Bart’s. I think Molly Hooper’s pretty sweet on him, so she just puts up with his demands and gives him lab-space and, when he needs them, body-parts.”

“Oh, that poor girl. If she ain’t barking up the wrong fucking tree!”

“Tell me about it.” He snickered, “Well, I hate to break her heart, but I think both of her love interests are a bit more interested in each other.”

“What gave you _that_ idea?” Seb rolled his eyes.

“The way Sherlock got all sad and moony-eyed the first time he saw Jim at the hospital that afternoon. I know that look, I know what it means.”

“How’d you get him to confess?”

“I asked,” John said with a shrug as he downed the rest of his coffee. Seb asked for a cigarette in exchange for a light, and John gave him one from the crumpled pack that lived in his back pocket. Tonight he had it in one of the gear-pockets on his vest.

“Ta, mate,” Seb muttered, taking two and sticking one behind his ear for later as he touched the lighter to the other before offering it to John.

“Happy to. Besides,” John grinned as he blew a trail of smoke into the air, “ _you_ asked.”

“Sherlock doesn’t?”

“Forget _that_. Honestly, I think he’s convinced I just buy them so he’ll stop bitching about not having any.”

“Not once considering that you _also_ smoke?”

“Apparently not!” He looked over the side of the railing. They were joined after a while by Roberts and Tanner, who had been relieved by Connor and Meredith, and it was back to work. This time, he took patio-duty with Seb and they chatted for a while as he covered his new circuit and then a bit of his cat-walk circuit in tandem with Tanner, who would meet him halfway and turn around.  All the while he kept an ear to the penthouse and another to his radio.

 

Around midnight, he officially went “off-duty”, and returned his kit to the armoury. But out of long habit, he kept his SIG and the knives on him, and his radio. Seb just smiled and said something about old habits and such.

“Yeah, so _what_?” He snipped. “It’s not like _you’ve_ really changed, is it?”

“Oh, come on now, Captain,” Seb said in a sweet tone.

“Prick.” He muttered, flipping him off. Seb chuckled.

“I love you, too, Ducky.”

“Fuck off.” John said, making a face, “You know I hate it when you call me that in public!”

“Ah, but we’re _not_ in public, are we?”

“Christ I hate you sometimes, Tiger.”

“Aw, you don’t mean that!” Seb sing-songed, taking a sip of his beer. John gave him a dirty look, not that he really did mean any of it. He polished off his own beer and stared at the empty bottle.

“Uh, how many of these have we had?”

“Well, we had two drinks each at the gala, and we’ve had … three each of these bad bastards?” Seb had to count on his fingers. “So … five? Ish?”

“Ugh.” John grabbed the empty bottles littering the coffee table, “How often do your guys see you like this?”

“Eh, not often enough to care. None of their business anyway, is it?” Seb drawled with a careless shrug as John headed for the kitchen. John knew damn well Seb watched him until he was out of sight, and grinned.

“Still got it, old man.” He muttered as he tossed the bottles into the bin under the sink. He may not be as young or as handsome as he had been once, but he still had it where it mattered. He checked his phone, nothing. That was either good, or that was bad. But he suspected if things were going poorly, he would have heard before now. Of course, no sooner had that thought crossed his mind than his phone rang.

“About fucking time.” He took the call with a smile.

“ _Watson.”_

_“Since when did you answer your phone like_ that _?”_

_“Since when did you call me and not send a text?”_ He said pertly. _“What’s up, Sherlock? I don’t need to come get your sorry arses, do I?”_

_“N-no, no you do not. Vic, stop it! Sorry, John.”_

_“That’s fine, as long as you two idiots are alright. Seb and I would have no problem coming to get you if we need to, just give the word.”_

_“Oh, are you still with Moran?”_

_“I’ve been with him all fucking night, Sherlock. About as long as_ you’ve _been with your boyfriend.”_

_“He is_ not _my … ”_

_“Honey, he’s your boyfriend.”_ John cut his flatmate off, holding up one hand even though he couldn’t see it. _“And you know what? That’s absolutely fine with me! You know it’s fine with me, and everyone else can go fuck off.”_

_“What about Mycroft?”_

_“Fuck Mycroft. Don’t you think about worrying about him until you need to. Seb and I will be happy to throw the scent for you.”_ John heard footsteps behind him and looked over his shoulder as Seb came into the kitchen. _“Sherlock, I shot a man for your sake in January. If you don’t think I can handle your brother, you need to do your research.”_

_“Would you really do that for me, John?”_

_“All you have to do is ask, Sherlock. Now, get off the phone with me and get back to your handsome Irish boyfriend.”_ He could _hear_ JM’s voice in the background, a low, lilting murmur as he tried to coax Sherlock to hang up the phone.

_“Where are you right now?”_

_“We’re trying to decide where we want to go.”_

_“Well, Baker Street’s available.”_

_“Where are_ you _, then?”_

_“Camden. Tell Jim he’s got a beautiful place up here. I wasn’t expecting such a nice centre of operations.”_

_“Oh. Really? Alright.”_ Sherlock sounded kind of dazed and John chuckled.

_“C’mon, Billy Boy. Leave ‘im alone already!”_ He heard JM’s voice _very_ clearly now, _“He said it’s alright, so just leave ‘im be. Sebby’ll take good care of your Watson.”_ John stifled a chuckle as he imagined JM draping himself around Sherlock, trying to get him off the phone. He looked sideways at Seb, who had come up behind him and was leaning over his shoulder, and grinned. Sebby? Hmm.

“Hang up the phone, Ducky, or I _will_.” He murmured, nuzzling the side of John’s neck. “Where they go or don’t is only our business if we have to go get their arses out of trouble. So far, that hasn’t been a problem.”

“Don’t _call_ me that!” John hissed, covering the receiver even as he blushed warmly. Fuck him if Sherlock overheard _that_! Well, fair’s fair and turnabout and all that nonsense. Reaching over, Seb grabbed the phone from him and held it out of reach as he made an aborted lunge for it.

“Oi!”

_“Hello, Mr Holmes. Seb Moran here.”_ Seb said smoothly, wrapping his free arm around John so he couldn’t try to get his phone back, _“I’ve got John and we’re good for tonight. Tell Mr Moriarty I’ve taken care of the house and he knows the rules.”_ There was a pause and Seb made a soft noise as he hooked his chin over John’s shoulder.

_“Oh, absolutely. Of course, sir! See you, then! Save travels!”_ With that, he hung up and pocketed John’s phone.

“Where are _they_ going?” He asked petulantly.

“They’re coming back here. But there’s no reason to wait up for them.” Seb kissed him on the cheek and let him go. “You, Ducky, are coming with me.”

“There’s no reason to wait up for them and yet that’s exactly what we’re going to do?” John rolled his eyes. “You forget, Tiger, that I know you better than almost anyone else. I don’t think JM knows you half as well as I do.”

“Oh, stop complaining so much.” Seb threw an arm around his shoulders as they left the kitchen. But instead of going back to the sitting room, they went upstairs to the bedrooms.

 

Once the door of the room Seb kept in the penthouse was closed behind them, John set the lock. None of the staff would be stupid enough to interrupt them, but you could never be too sure. There was dull thud and he looked over as Seb tossed aside his boots. John smirked, knowing his old commander was showing off as he leaned down to untie his boots with his back to John.

“Show off.” He muttered.

“As if you care.” Seb shot back, looked over at him with a sly grin. He chuckled and approached the bed.

“What did you have in mind, then, Colonel?”

“Mm.  I believe I owe you in kind for the performance earlier.” Seb mused, directing him to sit on the mattress.

“Well, then, after you, Sir.” He leaned back on his hands and watched. Seb wouldn’t do like to him as he had earlier, and John was alright with that.

 

It was a matter of efficiency to get out of their uniforms, and it was only a matter of time and careful preparation before John had Seb under him, fingers gripping tight to the other man’s hips with enough force to bruise as he sank deep into a hot and willing body. It seemed like it had been ages for John and maybe it had been, but this was familiar ground for them, this bizarre game of give-and-take. And he had missed it, even if he would never say it out loud.

 

Finding the rhythm that worked best, and the angle that hit Seb’s prostate dead on every time, John held on and pressed his forehead to the slick skin beneath him. A deep, satisfied groan, if not a very broken one, rumbled in Seb’s chest as John hit the target once again, and he smiled, pressing his lips to Seb’s shoulder as he sped up just a bit.

“F-fuck … Watson. Fuck.” Seb grunted, going down on to rest on his arms, raising his arse higher, which pushed John deeper, if that was possible.

“Working on it, Sir.” He huffed, adjusting his own angle just a bit. He laid one hand against the back of Seb’s neck to hold him in place and chased his own climax while also seeing to Seb’s pleasure.

 

He wasn’t sure how, but he came first, and hard, with Seb a few strokes behind. Grunting at the surge of endorphins that always accompanied a successful, consensual bout of sex, he collapsed against his exhausted partner and they lay together for a moment to catch their breath after he had carefully withdrawn. After a minute, he carefully removed the spent condoms, confining and minimizing the mess, and disposed of them in a couple of crumpled tissues. When he returned to the bed, he dropped on top of Seb, who grunted at the sudden weight landing on his shoulders.

“So.”

“Hmm?”

“You _know_ , you just _know_ , those two are going to know exactly what we’ve got up to while they were out?”

“What about it?” Seb looked over at him, an eyebrow cocked. “My business is my own and as long as it doesn’t interfere with work, JM honestly doesn’t care _what_ I do, who I do it with, or even who I do it to.”

“Makes him better than Sherlock, then. Smug bastard always complains when I go out with someone, even if it’s just Greg for drinks on a Thursday.” John shook his head and looked at his watch.

“Let’s get cleaned up and back to post.” Seb rolled his shoulders to displace John, who groaned as he rolled onto his back.

“Do we _have_ to?”

“Must keep up appearances, darling,” Seb said smoothly, rising from the bed like a cat, and turning to John with one hand outstretched. “Come along, Ducky. Work to do, won’t do itself.”

“I kind of despise you just at the moment.” He took the offered hand and let Seb pull him off the bed, leading the way to the attached en-suite. “You _know_ I hate being called Ducky.”

“Of course I know!” That got him a smug grin, “And I’m the only one who can!”

“You’re a right bastard, Sebastian Moran,” John muttered, not really _that_ upset with the older man. Folding his arms across his chest, he watched Moran run the water in the shower. No lazy bath time this round, they were on a schedule. Being men of routine, they weren’t longer in the shower than ten minutes between them. Getting dressed in the clothes discarded earlier, they moved around each other in a familiar, easy silence, quietly passing over shirts or trousers or boots to one another with a glance and a smile but no word spoken. John had honestly missed _this_ almost more than he’d missed the sex.

 

Once they were both properly dressed and the only signs they’d been up to anything concealed by clothes, they went back downstairs and retrieved their kits from the armoury. Gearing up took less time than getting dressed, and once they were both ready, it was back outside to the patio. This time, he and Seb split the catwalk patrols and left the rest of the patio to the other two, a pair he was _not_ introduced to. He would eventually learn everyone’s names, but that was for later.

 

John had no idea how long he had been out there on the catwalks when they got a call-in from the doorman. Of _course,_ the doorman worked for JM. He snickered and tweaked his radio.

_“Is Mr Moriarty’s guest still with him?”_

_“Yes, sir. I have a visual of Mr Holmes.”_

_“Very good. Thank you, Baines.”_ John smirked and let go of the PTT button. Seb had given him the names of a few members of the security staff, people he would be working with in the coming months, and he remembered Martin Baines was one of those stationed to “visible security” downstairs in the atrium.

“So, I take it JM owns this building?” He looked over at Seb, who offered him a lighter in exchange for two more cigarettes.

“Mhm. And the one across the street.” Seb said as he touched the lighter to John’s cigarette. “The Melrose Apartments are part of JM’s holdings.”

“Interesting.” He just raised an eyebrow. “Should we take bets on how long it’s going to take either of them to figure out that I haven’t just spent the evening with you but I got a job out of the deal?”

“And a first-rate shag to boot?”

“First round next Pub Night, my treat?” He knew without asking that Seb would be following him just about everywhere regardless of JM’s presence in the equation.

“Moving a little fast there, aren’t you, Watson?”

“Oh, stop it. Nobody with The Met is going to know who you are or even care.” He shrugged and blew a stream of smoke at the dark sky.  “If nothing else, I might be able to get a few people to leave me alone.”

“Or not.”

“That’s on them, then, and I can’t be blamed if I act in self-defence.” John looked over the railing.

 

It wasn’t long before JM and Sherlock showed themselves and it was evident that the two had _thoroughly_ enjoyed themselves over the course of the evening. John was a little surprised by the sound of laughter and looked over his shoulder.

“What was _that_?”

“That would be our idiots being idiots,” Seb said with a long-suffering sigh. “They’re quite drunk.”

“Sherlock drunk is quite a sight to behold,” John smirked, heading for the main patio. When he reached the open space, he called the other two to cover the cat-walks for a while. And in good time, too. No sooner had he and Seb taken up post on the patio than he heard JM’s voice inside.

“Sebby! Where did  you go!”

“You keep your fucking mouth shut or I’ll put it to good use, Watson,” Seb growled as John tittered.

“I can’t believe he actually calls you Sebby!”

“Fuck you, Watson.”

“Mm. Did that already, sir.” He beamed.

“You wipe that smile off your face or so help me, Watson.”

“What? You’ll make me sorry?” John just waggled his fingers suggestively at his former commander and current watch-partner.

“Sebby!” Came another shout.

“We’re out here, Mr Moriarty,” Seb called back calmly, glaring at John all the while.

“Oh, _there_ you are, darlings!” Just like that, JM appeared, dressed to the nines and in high good spirits. Behind him, just as well-dressed and giddy, came Sherlock. It was obvious the pair had been enjoying themselves, Sherlock was flushed and his hair was a bit messier than usual. John could imagine JM playing with those beautiful curls as he sweet-talked his shy new boyfriend.

“John!” Sherlock lunged past JM and out onto the patio, throwing his arms around John in an unexpected show of affection.

“Oof. Hi there.” He chuckled, grunting as he rocked back on his heels, “Have a good night?”

“John, you wouldn’t believe it!” Sherlock was practically gushing, “It’s so amazing, I keep feeling like I’m in a dream, it’s wonderful!”

“I’m pretty sure this is all real, Sherlock.” He chuckled, “Can you please put me down?”

“Oh. Sorry! I know you hate it when your feet can’t touch the ground!” Sherlock set him back on his feet and looked him over. “And what on _earth_ are you wearing? What is all of this?”

“I got a job out of this little arrangement.” John looked over at Seb, “I work for Moran now.”

“Oh, you _do_?” Sherlock turned and looked at Seb, “Oh, it’s nice to finally meet you, Colonel! Vic’s been telling me all about you! I’m glad he has you to keep him right!”

“I can’t imagine it’s been all good things, Mr Holmes.” Seb chuckled and held out one hand. “Likewise the pleasure is mine.”

“Oh, God, don’t call me that! Mr Holmes is my _brother_.” Sherlock made a face, “Just call me Sherlock?”

“If you insist.” Seb raised an eyebrow.

“If he doesn’t, Sebby, _I will_!” JM said haughtily and John snickered.

“You, shut up,” Seb said sharply.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Like hell you are.” The disgust was heavy in Seb’s voice and he saw two pairs of eyebrows go up at the banter between himself and Seb. A look was exchanged between the pair of consultants and Sherlock looked him over closely, circling him as he made deductions, which he kindly kept to himself this time. Finally, he had all the data he needed and looked at him with an expression that was not disappointment, but something like exasperation.

“Really, John?” He asked, arms folded across his chest, “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

 “So what if I have a thing for military men?” John said calmly, “I _was_ one, you know? And it’s not like I fucked some random stranger I met in a bar, is it?”

“Well, you _have_ done that before, but I didn’t think your tastes were quite so … specific.” Sherlock tilted his head, “I guess I shouldn’t be that surprised, knowing what I do about you now.”

“It’s always something, isn’t that what you say?” John winked, glancing down at Sherlock’s trousers, doing his own study of his friend. There was nothing glaringly obvious to announce any explicit activities he and JM might have undertaken anymore than there were obvious signs on John or Seb, but the signs were all there if you knew what to look for.

“Been busy, have we, Mister Holmes?” He grinned and looked up again, making deliberate eye-contact. It took a minute for Sherlock to catch on to what he was about, and his friend flushed a dark, embarrassed red.

“Looks like you taught dear Johnny a bit too well, Billy Boy.” JM murmured, linking arms with Sherlock and leaning against him. “Observant little thing, isn’t he?”

“Don’t _call_ me that.” He muttered, folding his arms tight across his chest. Next to him, Seb snickered. Turnabout was fair play and he was _loving_ watching John squirm. Seb _knew_ why John hated being called Johnny, but he wasn’t going to say anything, a little suffering was in order. Sherlock leaned over to JM and whispered something in sotto voce, but not quietly enough John and Seb couldn’t overhear.

“Oh, you pissed poor Johnny off.”

“Sherlock!” He snapped. “That’s enough out of you! Next time I’ll drug your tea!”

“Oh, you don’t mean that!”

“Try me.” He sniffed, levelling a glare at the pair of cheerfully inebriated consultants, “It’s my job to keep you out of trouble, Holmes, I’d be more than happy to let some enterprising suspect have a go at you next time.”

“Aw, come on now, John!”

“Lucky for _you_ , I like you too much for that and I have more respect for your boyfriend than blatantly putting you in harm’s way.” He shook his head, “But don’t ever call me Johnny. I hate it.”

“Can I still call you Misha?” JM asked innocently.

“Yes, Vic, you can still call me Misha.” John sighed and dug the crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, shaking one out before he offered it to the other two. Sherlock’s eyes got wide and he blinked.

“John.”

“Yeah, yeah. Always something. Why do you think I keep buying them? Not just for you, son.”

“Oh. May I?”

“Help yourself.” He shrugged.

“So, out of curiosity, how do you know each other?” Sherlock asked.

“We go a ways back.”

“You were together in Afghanistan, weren’t you?” Sherlock handed over the pack after he and JM had taken their share of it.

“Yes, for quite a while.”

“I can handle John Watson, I’ve got the experience,” Seb said, taking John’s hand.

“Good luck to you, Colonel.” Sherlock touched flame to the end of his cigarette. “I’m afraid John can be a bit testy at times.”

“Oh, believe me, sir, I know,” Seb promised. It had been a long night for all of them, an eventful and ultimately fulfilling night overall, so it didn’t take long before John and Seb parted ways with Sherlock and JM, who disappeared into the master suite together after saying goodnight.

 

John followed Seb back to his bedroom after taking care of setting the night-watch rosters to rights and stashing his kit in his locker. They didn’t bother with another shower, they didn’t need one, and it was no time at all before John was falling into bed. It was nice to be with Seb again, and he had few reservations if any about working for JM as a result of his new position as Seb’s lieutenant. It had been a while since he had a chance to take orders like that, to be in command of any number of men like that, and he was hoping he hadn’t lost his touch.

“Would you knock that off?” Seb muttered from the other side of the bed, startling him a bit. “I can _hear_ you thinking and it’s driving me bonkers.”

“Sorry.” John sighed and rolled over, “I was just wondering if I’d lost my edge for command or not.”

“Oh, please. You’ll be just fine, and if any of the blokes give you trouble, send ‘em my way and I’ll set ‘em straight for you.” Seb said, reaching for him in the semi-dark of the bedroom. “Now, please go to sleep. We start early around here.”

“What’s early?” John huffed. “Anything after four is a late-start for me these days if there’s a case on.”

“And you still run on military time even after all this time you’ve been out.” Seb chuckled. “We don’t start quite that early, I’m afraid.”

“Hmm. If we got a case while we’re here, you don’t suppose Sherlock and JM would show up together, do you?”

“Oh, no, not until JM puts a stop to that silly game of his. No, no.”

“Oh, _that’s_ still a thing, isn’t it!” John giggled, burying his face in the pillow, “I completely forgot about that! Oh, no! Do you suppose Sherlock getting back together with JM will change anything?”

“Mm, probably. Not that anyone else will know different.”

“You don’t suppose we might be able to convince yours to rig up dummy-vests for the rest of it?”

“Nope. He likes the game to have a bit of danger to it.”

“And Sherlock didn’t care much when that block got blown up. That was a bit not good, by the way.”

“I told JM you weren’t going to like that, but I can safely reassure you that I was _not_ the trigger-man that day.” Seb promised, “I may be a paid assassin, but I have standards.”

“You always did have standards. ‘s what got you the boot in the first place, wasn’t it? The fit you threw because of what happened to me and someone thought you must have had something to do with it?”

“Mhm. But not before I threw a fit about Sholto, too.”

“That was _not_ your fault, Seb. None of it was your fault, and don’t ever blame yourself for it.” John shook his head a little bit, knowing the guilt would haunt all of them until their deathbeds if they let it. “I don’t blame you for that, and Sholto doesn’t either.”

“I know, but I can’t help feel bad for it. You trusted me, and I let you down, I ignored flags.”

“Not. Your. Fault. Now, you said something about sleep, and that sounds like a brilliant idea. We’ll talk about your sense of guilt and obligation later.”

“Good night, John.”

“Good night, Seb.” He squeezed Seb’s hand and rolled over, asleep in minutes.

* * *

* * *

 


	9. Finding Your Broken Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evening winds down, and Sherlock takes the opportunity to think things over for himself. It has been a very long, very exciting night, and his life may never be the same again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into Sherlock's mind here. He's a tricky one, but I gave it my best shot.

* * *

* * *

 

As he listened to the ambient sounds of the penthouse flat, the murmur of voices and the rhythmic, steady tread of pacing footsteps outside on the patio and the more-distant hum of traffic far below, Sherlock Holmes reflected on a very unusual but thoroughly enjoyable evening. He hadn’t expected it to go so well, or so smoothly. Usually reunions after ten years rarely turned out so well, but he wasn’t going to question the fact that he and Jim Moriarty, who was not quite who he said he was, seemed to get along just like old friends. He suspected that was because they _were_ old friends, and lovers as well. It was a relief to know that he _hadn’t_ been imagining things when he thought “Jim from IT” looked an awful lot like his ex-boyfriend Victor Trevor.

 

It turned out, to his incredible good luck, that they were the same person. By some bizarre fate, Jim Moriarty and Victor Trevor were the very same person, and Sherlock was okay with that. He had always known there was a dark edge to Victor when they had known each other in university, but that was really what had attracted him to Victor in the first place. Losing Victor three days before Christmas in 2000 had been the most devastating thing to ever happen, at least that he could remember clearly, and he had never really gotten over the grief and heartbreak. Matters hadn’t been helped at all by Mycroft reciting an old mantra to him: “All lives end; all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.” He suspected his brother meant well, but the timing was atrocious and Sherlock had needed emotional support more than he needed common sense.

 

But that was all behind him now, and he might just have a chance to start over with Jim, or maybe just pick up where they’d left off after these ten long years apart. And now, he was staring at the ceiling of Jim’s bedroom, listening to the nocturnal sounds of London coming through the window and contemplating and reorganizing a few things in his Mind Palace. Jim slept behind him, unaware of the thoughts keeping Sherlock awake. He was relaxed and soft in sleep, almost childish in appearance. It reminded Sherlock of similar nights when he had done just this, sat up in bed lost to his thoughts while his boyfriend slept away the nighttime hours.

“Would you _stop_ that?” Jim murmured suddenly. “You’re thinking so loud they can probably hear you downstairs.”

“Sorry.” Sherlock sighed and fell back against the pillows, throwing an arm across his eyes. “I can’t sleep.”

“Nerves.” Jim rolled over, the sheets rustling as he moved, “What are you worried about?”

“Us. The future. How you got out of that wreck alive, if you were ever actually in it to begin with.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Wondering if this is a dream and I’ll wake up to find myself back in Baker Street in an empty bed.”

“You’re _not_ dreaming, ‘Lock. I promise.” Jim said softly, his Irish accent thicker when he was half-awake, and Sherlock felt something in his chest loosen. He wasn’t going to cry, he’d already done enough of that tonight, but he was certainly emotionally compromised. His heart had been torn and shredded by grief once, and now…maybe it was getting a chance to mend a bit?

“Do you promise?”

“I do. I absolutely do.” He felt slim fingers in his hair and let out a shaky breath. “Sherlock, look at me?”

“Hmm?”

“Look. At. Me.” A hand pried his arm away and he looked up at dark eyes backlit by the ambient light in the bedroom that came from the windows. Victor had always had the prettiest brown eyes, soft and warm one minute and cold as ice the next. But Sherlock had never been the target of Victor’s wrath, he saved that for other people and refused to make Sherlock suffer for it.

“Vic?”

“I’m right here, Lock.” He promised, leaning in so their foreheads touched, “And I will _never_ let that happen again. No one else will ever hurt you. I won’t let them.”

“What about my brother?”

“I can certainly handle your big brother. He’s never liked me to begin with, but I’m not going to let him dictate what we have anymore. When we can see each other, how, or where. The power he had over you was beyond reason. Do you remember what I told you when we were still together?”

“About being nice to my brother because I might want him in my life someday.”

“I meant that. I don’t want _anyone_ to have to suffer the loss of a sibling the way I did. Ricky’s death will haunt me forever.”

“I’m sorry you lost your brother, and in such an awful way.” Sherlock took Jim’s hand in his, “You lost your whole family that night, didn’t you?”

“Mm. But the only one I really mourned was Ricky. He was four when it happened.”

“Oh, Vic.” Sherlock couldn’t imagine something that terrible happening. Except that something that terrible _had_ happened to him, and it hadn’t been family that he’d lost.

“I can’t imagine you have any idea what that’s like, do you?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” He sniffled, “Holiday Break, 2000. We had so many _plans_ , Vic!”

“Oh.” There was something in the way his eyes narrowed. “That _was_ three days before Christmas, wasn’t it? I’m so sorry, love, I didn’t realize.”

“No one really ever does. I hate Christmas for that reason, because I lost everything all at once. Mummy and Daddy were just as upset, you know? Daddy respected you and Mummy loved you.”

“Because you loved _me_ , Lock. Your parents were amazing people and I would love to see them again. I assume they haven’t changed a great deal in ten years?”

“Mm, no.” He smiled, “Not quite the way some people change. I suppose that’s a relief.”

“Good.” Jim leaned back a bit and pressed a kiss to his nose.

“I’m  sorry I kept you awake, Vic.”

“I missed you keeping me awake. Seb always did wonder why I slept like shit.”

“Didn’t you ever tell him?”

“Once, and swore to make sure no one found the body if he ever said a word on it.”

“Moran’s smart, he knows how to keep his mouth shut.” Sherlock smiled and touched the face inches from his. “John’s in good hands, isn’t he?”

“Some of the best in London. D’you suppose he’ll have a problem with us?”

“Not if the behaviour I saw downstairs was any sign.” Sherlock tilted his head, “I’ll tell you in the morning about what he said to me at the hospital back in March. Did I already tell you?”

“Mm, no, I don’t think you did. But that can certainly wait until a more reasonable hour.” Jim kissed him on the cheek and settled down next to him. “Now for Christ’s sake, Holmes, go. To. Sleep.”

“I’ll try. Goodnight, Vic.”

“Goodnight, Lock.” Jim said softly, asleep in no time. Sherlock turned over a bit more and put one arm around Jim, close enough to share warmth but not so close they were touching. What a crazy night! And he had no regrets about any of it. The morning would bring its own troubles and challenges, but that was for later. For now, it was time to sleep.

* * *

* * *

 


	10. Merry Tension : Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg Lestrade has enough to worry about without Baker Street adding on more stress, but it's been quiet on that front for a while now. However, peace is never long-lived in his division and it's no time at all before his routine is rudely interrupted by Mycroft Holmes. This had better be worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of three-part instalment.

* * *

* * *

It was several weeks before anyone not intimately involved with the change in the dynamic at 221B Baker Street had any idea that anything _had_ changed. It was a simple case, a common but intriguing case, that had Greg Lestrade calling on Baker Street on an ordinary Monday morning. It was just interesting enough to get Sherlock’s attention, who agreed to come, on the understanding that he would not be working alone.

“Of course!” Greg looked around, noticing the absence of the flat’s other regular tenant. “Is John around?”

“He’s out at the moment, but he’ll be happy to join us!” Sherlock said as he grabbed his coat and scarf. “I’ll text him with the details?”

“Oh, sure. You’ll be right behind in a taxi, I assume?” Greg looked kind of confused that John wasn’t home, and exasperated that Sherlock was once again turning down an offer of a free ride to the scene in question.

“Of course! Right behind, Lestrade, you know I don’t drive in police vehicles.”

“Yeah, yeah, I _know_.” He sighed, “Where _is_ John, anyway?”

“Work.”

“Oh. I thought he’d quit working at the clinic?”

“He did, after he broke up with Doctor Sawyer in May. But he got another job.”

“Ah. Well, you know the drill, I guess. I’ll text you the address.”

“Thank you, Lestrade!” He yelled from halfway down the stairs. Greg shook his head and quickly texted Sherlock the address, watching from the window as he hopped into a cab that had just pulled up, and looked around. It had been almost a month since their last case had more or less ended, the suspect practically disappeared overnight, and things had been awfully quiet from Baker Street. That case had been vaguely titled "By Royal Appointment" on John's blog and there was next to nothing in the entry to explain how they had gotten themselves involved or what they'd gotten involved _in_. But Greg knew it was something pretty serious, he remembered pulling up to an address in Belgravia and finding Sherlock among the injured parties, John the only one who could give a reasonable statement, and several dead. He still had no idea what that had been about, but it was definitely one of the strangest cases he'd ever gotten involved in. He had seen enough of the boys since then to satisfy himself that Sherlock was staying out of trouble, and John was a pretty regular face at Pub Nights. But it was obvious _something_ had changed in the dynamic.

 

For one, John kept showing up at Pub Nights with another bloke in tow. An old Army mate of his from back in the day who had reconnected with him recently. The man’s name was Sebastian Moran, he had been one of John’s commanders during his service, and it was clear the two were close friends. And Greg was pretty sure he’d seen Moran at one or two of the crime-scenes he’d called the boys on. On several occasions, now that he thought about it, John had shown up on a scene with Sherlock wearing dark tactical-style fatigues like the ones worn by the SCO19 teams with specific patches. A quick internet search of the patches had given him a private firm, which was apparently owned at least in part by Moran. Going upstairs to John’s bedroom, Greg searched through his closet and found several black uniforms with familiar patches. John, apparently, worked for JVM Holdings? Doing what? Security, apparently, just going by his new wardrobe. Well, he’d done enough snooping, he had real work to do.

 

Leaving Baker Street, Greg headed over to the scene and waited for the Baker Street tecs to show themselves. Sherlock must have told the driver to take the long way, he arrived five minutes after Greg did. But no, Greg realized he had ditched the cab at some point and picked up a private car. And he only knew _that_ when a car pulled up just shy of the line. Not close enough to get a warning, but definitely closer than most civilian vehicles would park.

 _“Hey, Boss? I think we’ve got a problem down here.”_ Sally Donovan called it in over the radio, distracting him from trying to make heads or tails of the body.

_“What now, Donovan?”_

_“Um, I_ think _it’s The Freak, but he didn’t come in a cab and that’s definitely not one of his brother’s cars.”_

 _“Donovan, you might want to learn his name one of these days.”_ Greg sighed, rubbing his forehead. _“I’m on my way down.”_ Looking to his right, he shoved to his feet.

“Nixon, take over for me. I’ll be right back.”

“Yes, sir.” The young sergeant just nodded and Greg hustled back to the line before Donovan could start any trouble with Sherlock or anyone he might have shown up with. She was _so_ good at doing that. Greg arrived in good time and looked past the line as a black Land Rover, heavily modified by the looks, slowed to a halt behind the closest patrol cars.

“Who the hell is _that_?” He frowned.

“Dunno, sir. I thought it might be The Freak.” Donovan shrugged as they watched the car curiously. Greg did notice that any personnel on that side of the line gave the car a curious, suspicious look, but gave it a wide berth and didn’t approach. It wouldn’t surprise him at all to learn that the Rover had military-grade modifications not limited to bullet-proof windows, armour-plates in the body-panels, and run-flat tires. The windows themselves were tinted, as most private security vehicles he had seen tended to be, so it wasn’t easy to make out who might be inside. At least not until the front doors popped open and the two men riding in front emerged. Greg had no problem recognizing either of them, and a whole lot about what he had seen in the past and what he had learned started making more sense. John Watson didn’t just _work_ for JVM Holdings, he was one of the people giving orders!

 

As he watched, along with several nearby personnel who couldn’t help _but_ watch, John went around the car to the back passenger door and did something to it but did not open it. Instead, he walked around to the boot and opened the hatch, removing something from inside. Two of them, whatever it was. There was some shuffling, he could tell that John and Moran were chatting, and it wasn’t until they appeared again, Moran closing up the boot and John coming around again to open the back passenger door finally, that he realized just what they’d been doing.

“Oh my god.” He breathed. John and Moran were fully kitted out in everything except a ballistics vest. They had side-arms, belt-knives, spare ammunition clips, and M16A2 rifles across their backs. Both men wore berets, the same shade as their fatigues with a red brim and the familiar JVM Capital patch. Greg waited for the threesome to reach the line.

“Boss?”

“Take a walk, Donovan, I’ll handle this one.” He didn’t even look at his sergeant, who pulled herself erect.

“Sir.”

“Donovan. Take. A walk.” This time, he _did_ look at her. “Now.”

“Yes, sir.” Whatever she saw in his face, it cowed her into behaving. As soon as she disappeared, he held the line for Sherlock and his two companions.

“Thanks for coming down, Sherlock. We’re up that way.” He dropped the line behind John, pointing the way for them.

“Thank you, Lestrade.” Sherlock nodded and headed in the indicated direction with John and Moran three steps behind. Greg kept pace and it was only once he had Sherlock alone by the body that he dared to speak up.

“Speak your mind, Lestrade, I can hear you thinking and it’s _very_ distracting.” Sherlock glanced at him briefly and went back to whatever it was he did.

“Uh. So, uh, John’s private security now?”

“Mm. Was it that obvious?”

“Well, it’s just … this _isn’t_ the first time I’ve seen him show up somewhere in black tac-fatigues wearing the JVM Capital TRF patch. And I know I’ve seen his partner around.”

“Moran?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course!” Sherlock looked briefly at the two, who stood a polite distance away. “John is Seb’s lieutenant now, and actually quite good at what he does. Much happier than he ever was working in a clinic.”

“Uh. _Seb_?” A casual first-name drop like that kind of surprised Greg, who could barely get Sherlock to remember his first name on a bad day.

“Yes, _Seb_. He’s not just an employer, but a very good and very _useful_ friend.” Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes harsh, “I doubt Baker Street has _ever_ been safer than it is with John and Seb on detail. Mrs Hudson adores him, by the way.”

“I bet she does! Well, I guess it makes sense, they were mates in the Army before they worked together in the outside.” There was just something about it that itched at him, but he couldn’t make heads or tails of it. And with a murder demanding his focus, he couldn’t afford to give it any consideration.

 

After Sherlock neatly solved the murder for them, Greg was surprised to return to his office an hour later and find Sherlock and his protection-detail waiting in his office.

“Oh. Uh, hi?” He stared at the threesome as he hung his coat. “What are you doing here?”

“Getting reports out of the way before we go home.” Sherlock smiled, “If you don’t mind, Lestrade? You have plenty of work to do without me making things too sticky.”

“Um, sure. Hang on a second.” He sat down behind his desk and found a packet for Sherlock to fill out. Greg didn’t need one for John this time, Sherlock had done all of the work. He _did_ have John and Moran fill out statements to prove they had been on the scene at the same time as Sherlock had, though that was a formality and really just to cover his bases in case someone higher on the ladder started asking questions about two armed private security on a crime scene.

 

Once Sherlock was gone with a few more boxes of unsolved cases to play with, Greg got busy with filing and reporting for the murder they had just solved and tried to clear off his desk a bit more. The whole while, he was trying to work out what it was about Sherlock, about both of the boys actually, that he was missing. It was something subtle but obvious, he just had to pay attention properly.

 

Of course, Greg knew better than to think he would get any peace. The day after he called on Baker Street for help, he arrived at work to find Mycroft Holmes waiting in his office.

“I take it this isn’t a social call.” He hung his coat and went around the desk, “How long have you been waiting for me?”

“Ten minutes. Sergeant Donovan was kind enough to let me into your office so I wouldn’t frighten any of your constables.”

“Well, that _was_ kind of her, but that doesn’t explain what you’re doing in my office at 6:00 in the morning on a Tuesday.” Greg sat down and studied his guest. Mycroft was very much ill at ease, this was definitely not a social call and certainly not something he wanted to be doing. He recognized the pinched expression on the taller man’s face.

“Is this about your brother?”

“Why would it be?”

“Because you don’t come to see me for anything _except_ your brother.” He resisted rolling his eyes. They had been playing this game for seven years, ten if he was completely honest. “There was a time, a very short one, where you did come to see me for something besides Sherlock.”

“Yes, I’m aware. But I didn’t come here to revisit fond memories of the past, Inspector.” Oh, it was like that, then?

“What has he done this time?” Greg leaned back in his chair, “I can’t imagine he’s gotten into too much trouble in the past twenty-four hours since I saw him yesterday morning.”

“Oh, so you’ve _seen_ my brother recently?”

“Yeah. Yesterday. I needed him for a case, it wasn’t _that_ difficult but I felt it couldn’t hurt to see if I could coax him out of Baker Street for a while.”

“Oh, interesting.” Mycroft’s expression became thoughtful and he rested both hands on his brolly, eyes narrow. “How did he seem to you?”

“Seem? He was … well, I’m not going to say he was *happy*, but he was definitely in a better mood than I’ve seen him in a while.” He said, carefully. “I could tell the case wasn’t quite up to par, I think he misses those puzzles he was getting during The Great Game.”

“The Great … Game?”

“Those cases we had in April, that mystery telephone-bomber?”

“Oh, yes, _that_. Why would he miss that?”

“Because it was interesting, it was exciting for him.” Greg shrugged, “He could have honestly cared less about the human element of it, I can tell you that much, but he liked the rush, the challenge. Then the whole thread kind of unravelled and the bomber vanished.”

“Hm. Well, best not to wish for the impossible, Inspector.” 

“Never mind the case they took back in September, _that_ one must have really been something.” He shook his head, “You’re lucky Sherlock was able to walk away from that alive. John, too.”

“I came to ask a favour of you, but I regret that it will interfere with your normal duties.” Mycroft looked down for a moment.

“If it involves Sherlock?”

“I need someone to follow him.”

“ _Follow_ him?” Greg snorted. “You’re joking, right?”

“No, Inspector, I am quite serious.”

“Why on earth would you want someone to follow Sherlock? Do you have _any_ idea how good he is at throwing tails and ducking CCTV?”

 “Yes, but this is imperative. His safety may be in jeopardy and I need to know what he’s up to and where he’s going, who he’s been with.”

 “You have an entire network of agents and cameras for that. Ask one of them.”

“I did. But my brother has … vanished. In fact, until this morning, I had no idea if he was even still in the city.” Well, _that_ was news to Greg. And another warning flag.

“Vanished? What do you mean?”

“Just that. He’s … disappeared from surveillance and completely dropped off radar.” This clearly bothered Mycroft having to admit to losing track of Sherlock again. “None of my people can pick up his trail and the cameras I have at Baker Street have stopped working. I replaced them two weeks ago, but they malfunctioned almost right away.”

 “Wouldn’t surprise me at all if Sherlock’s tampering with your cameras again.” Greg shrugged, “He looked alright to me, and John _was_ with him.”

“You’ve seen Doctor Watson, then?”

“Mr Holmes, I have seen _both_ Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson on several different occasions for business and pleasure alike. I see more of Watson than I do of your brother, but I have yet to get _any_ indication from him that he might possibly be in trouble.”

“You don’t know my brother.”

“Sir, I _highly_ doubt Watson would be so relaxed if your brother was in any kind of danger.” Greg got to his feet and stared down Mycroft Holmes. “Did you know he’d gotten a new job?”

“Who?”

“Watson. He works for a private security firm now, with one of his old Army mates.”

“Oh, I did _not_ know that, I was under the assumption he still worked for Doctor Sawyer.”

“Then you’re obviously misinformed and not doing your Big Brother job well enough. He apparently hasn’t worked for Doctor Sawyer’s clinic since April, and I imagine they have ended whatever relationship they had following the Black Lotus Tong incident.”

“Yes, that was … unpleasant. I’m sorry to hear it ended so poorly for him.” Which was a glaring lie.

“Look, I can’t spend all day trying to follow your little brother.” Greg sighed, “If he doesn’t want to be found or followed, he won’t be. He may have some help dodging your efforts, but I wouldn’t have the faintest who it might be. I guarantee you his Network isn’t going to be much help, so don’t bother with them.”

“I hadn’t even considered it.” Another lie. Greg hated it when people lied to him.

“And Watson has Sherlock’s interests at heart, you wouldn’t be able to make him talk for any money. Never mind the fact that Watson doesn’t _like_ you, so he wouldn’t talk to you anyway.”

“Yes, I am aware of the animosity.”

“That’s your fault, you know.” He raised an eyebrow. “You push, and you shove, and you scold. He’ll snap someday, he’ll fight back.”

“You know nothing of my brother’s temper, or _my_ intentions towards him.” Mycroft rose to his feet, face darkening. “Do not presume to know more about the situation than I do, Inspector Lestrade.”

“I presume nothing. I _know_ I have more intel on the situation than you do.” He snapped. “I am not going to put one of my CIs at risk because you have a superiority complex that needs taking down!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your brother is one of my most reliable resources, despite the fact that he outwits every single one of us on a regular basis. He gets shit done!” Greg was surprised he was so calm. He certainly didn’t _feel_ calm.

“What is the problem, Inspector?”

“You never gave me anything useful about what you expected me to do, so I’m not going to _do_ anything.”

“Intel, Inspector. All I need is _intel_. Surely you can spare a few hours to a stake-out?”

“A stake-out on Baker Street, are you crazy?” Greg couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “He knows what my car looks like and if you think for one minute he wouldn’t shine on to me in disguise, you’re a bigger idiot than Philip Anderson!”

“I was hoping you could be of some assistance to me as all other avenues have failed me thus far. It seems my faith was misplaced.” Mycroft said stiffly, his expression perfectly murderous. “I am sorry to have wasted my time, Inspector Lestrade.” Wasted _his_ time? _His_ time? Oh, that was the last straw.

“Thank you, Mr Holmes,” He went to the door of his office and held it, “you can see yourself out or I will have you escorted from the premises.”

“Very well, Inspector. Good day to you.” Mycroft took his leave, and it took every ounce of self-control Greg had not to trip him out the door and then slam it behind him.

* * *

* * *

 


	11. Merry Tension : Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg Lestrade has enough to worry about without Baker Street adding on more stress, but it's been quiet on that front for a while now. However, peace is never long-lived in his division and it's no time at all before his routine is rudely interrupted by Mycroft Holmes. This had better be worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of three-part instalment.

* * *

* * *

It wasn’t until he had seen Mycroft to the lifts and out to his waiting car, shadowing him as he left, that Greg breathed easy. Whatever that had been up in his office, it was bad. He needed answers, and he needed them fast. Running back to his office, he grabbed his coat and keys and headed out again after making sure he had everything.

“Where are _you_ going?” Donovan asked as he had one foot out the door.

“Baker Street. I forgot something when I went up there yesterday. Be back in a while, Donovan. Call if anything comes up.”

“Yes, sir.” She watched him go, “Are you sure you’re alright, Boss? What did Holmes want?”

“None of your fucking business, Donovan.” He snapped, leaving Donovan and a few nearby personnel baffled by his temper.

 

Getting to his car, he made the trip from The Met to Baker Street in ten minutes. Between the relatively light traffic-volume and potential abuse of his blues-and-twos, he cut a twenty-minute drive neatly in half. Pulling up at Baker Street, he yanked his keys, nearly forgot to lock the car, and let himself into Baker Street. By some miracle, he didn’t wake Mrs Hudson with all the commotion, even as he charged up the stairs to 221B.

“Sherlock!” He shouted on the landing. “Sher _lock_!” The door was propped open, so at least he knew they were home. Well, _someone_ was home. Shoving the door open with his shoulder, Greg burst into the quiet sitting-room and effectively startled all four people in it. John was at the work-table, Moran was by the window behind him keeping an eye on the street, Sherlock was in the kitchen at the table with an experiment, and someone else was sitting in the grey chair. There _were_ four of them, he hadn’t miscounted.

“Greg? What on earth is wrong? We heard you coming at the end of the street.” John was on his feet, as were Sherlock and the gentleman who had been sitting in his chair reading the early papers and sipping tea. Greg saw two more cups at both John’s work-station and on the table next to Sherlock. It was too early for Mrs Hudson to be up, so John must have made the tea.

“We heard you coming two blocks away, in fact.” Moran looked him over, “Are you alright, Inspector?”

“Jesus Christ. No!” He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the back of John’s red armchair so he wouldn’t just topple. “It’s too early for this bullshit!”

“Greg, sit down. What are you _doing_ up here? It’s barely half-past six.” Someone was touching him, leading him. He didn’t remember sitting down, but he must have.

“John?”

“He’s alright, just give him a minute.” There was a hand on his wrist and Greg blinked. Had he just completely dissociated between leaving The Met and reaching Baker Street? Why _had_ he come up here? It was important, he never came over if it wasn’t, but _why_ had he driven all the way over? What _time_ was it?”

“Are you _sure_? He’s not making much sense.” That wasn’t a voice he recognized, it must have been the stranger.

“What’d you mean I’m not making sense?” Greg squinted and looked up. John was kneeling before him, watching him carefully, Sherlock was behind him, and behind _them_ he saw Moran. The stranger stood to his left, they all wore similar expressions.

“You’re talking to yourself. At least, you’re talking out loud.” John shook his head and got to his feet. “By the way, it’s six-thirty on Tuesday morning, 16 November. What _happened_ , Greg?”

“Oh, Christ, where do I even _start_?” He muttered, putting his head in both hands.

“Try starting at the beginning,” Sherlock said as he went back into the kitchen for a few minutes before returning, handing over a cup of hot tea as he passed by. “This is rather early to call, even for business. I take it there aren’t any new murders been committed since yesterday morning?”

“Uh, no, no new murders,” Greg muttered, taking a sip of tea. “Though I briefly considered it on your brother.”

“Mycroft?” Four voices spoke in unison, he honestly doubted they meant to do that.

“What on earth could he have wanted at this hour?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “It must have been rather … important?”

“It seems that _you_ have quite neatly disappeared from all of your brother’s surveillance, both spooks and CCTV.” Greg rolled his eyes. “Happened at the first of the month, apparently, right after Halloween. He’s been trying to locate you without any luck since then.”

“But, I haven’t _gone_ anywhere. Why would he think that?”

“Because he lost track of you.” Greg focused on the hot ceramic between his hands, it gave him something to focus on while he explained himself. “I take it that hasn’t happened in a while?”

“Not recently. I mean, yes, I’ve dodged surveillance, that’s child’s play for me.” Sherlock shook his head, bemused by the turn of events, “But no, I haven’t disappeared from surveillance so completely in several years.”

“Five years.” Their unnamed visitor spoke up, arms folded across his chest. “The last time you disappeared from your brother’s surveillance like this was in 2005, before your last serious overdose.”

“How would _you_ know that?”

“Because I was the one who found him and called The Met.” The man said calmly, looking at Greg, “In fact, I called _you_ , Inspector Lestrade, if I’m not much mistaken.”

“You did?” Greg looked into his empty cup and felt a bit of regret. Before he could say anything or ask for more, the cup was gone. John had taken it and disappeared into the kitchen without him noticing.

“Seb, why don’t you help me in here so Greg can talk to Sherlock and JM for a minute?” He called, which in turn left Greg with Sherlock and the mysterious JM as Moran went into the kitchen to help John. Given the time of day, he suspected it was to fix breakfast. Apparently, he was getting a meal out of this foolish endeavour. Well, best leave them to it, then.

“Lestrade?”

“Hmm?”

“You have questions, I suspect you would like some answers to them.” Sherlock had sat down on the couch, JM sat next to him.

“A few, yes. For starters, a name for _you_ and how you and Sherlock know each other.” He looked at JM, who just looked right back at him, his gaze calm and friendly, open. He had met bank managers with shiftier eyes than this bloke, he was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Greg took a minute to study JM while he thought up an answer.

 

He was not quite as tall as Sherlock, if anyone really was, but certainly quite as dark. JM stood at about Sherlock’s chin, so he and John were of similar height, but that was his only similarity to John. He was slimmer than the veteran, with pale, lightly-freckled skin, dark hair cut high but grown out and a bit messy, and a startling contrast in eye-colour to the tall man sitting next to him. Sherlock had multi-hued eyes of every shade between the blue and brown spectrum, changed depending on lighting, mood, and even what he was wearing on a particular day; but JM had brown eyes. But they weren’t _just_ brown, they were several shades altogether and were just as apt to change as Sherlock’s for the same reasons. What an unusual dynamic! They seemed a good fit for each other, and Greg would be an idiot if they weren’t intimate in some fashion.

“For now, you can just call me JM, sir,” JM said as John brought out more tea before disappearing back into the kitchen. “Or Vic, if you’d like.”

“Vic?” He asked curiously.

“My middle name is Victor, sir. That’s the name I went by during University, where I met Sherlock in 1998.”

“Oh, you’re old school-mates?”

“Yes, sir. We were far _more_ than just school-mates, though.”

“Sherlock’s not really the sort for friends, but I’m glad he had someone during Uni.” Greg picked up the cup John had left him and blew steam off the rim before he took a sip. “How _did_ you two meet?”

“I was sitting at a table, composing a piece of music, and Vic walks up to me with a cup of tea in each hand.” Sherlock smiled a bit, a very genuine smile he rarely ever showed anyone. “He said, “Hey, mate, you should try to sleep.” I looked at him, knew everything about him, so _I_ said – ”

“ _He_ said, “I don’t need sleep, but judging by your appearance, you do.”” JM finished for Sherlock, as if it was a story he remembered as fondly as Sherlock apparently did. “What a bastard.”

“That sounds like Sherlock, alright!” Greg chuckled. “What a story!”

“I had been in the chemistry lab, working on an experiment, but I was kicked out after the last class was dismissed for the night and the cleaning crews were starting their rounds.” Sherlock explained, still flushed quite a charming shade of pink. “See, it was easier for me to do my work after dark, when there weren’t as many people around. One of my professors had given me a copy of his keys so I could come and go as I pleased, but even I knew when to push my limits with campus security. Not all of them were terribly fond of me.”

“I wonder why not.” He shook his head.

“Well, after I had been kicked out of the labs, I started back across campus. As I was walking back to my room, a sudden inspiration came upon me. So I sat down as soon as I could, and I composed it.”

“What became of it?”

“It’s a beautiful violin piece, adapted for over a hundred instruments.”

“Does it have a name?”

“We called it, um, “Chemistry”.” Sherlock shrugged, looking over at JM. I didn’t think the cute Irish Residence Associate for my hall would be such a big part of my life. I kept trying to run him off, but he never seemed to really get the point.”

“Oh, I got the point, ‘Lock, I just wasn’t interested in fucking off and leaving you to yourself.” JM grinned and bumped shoulders with Sherlock.

“So, how long did you two know each other?”

“Until 2000. We ... lost touch just before Christmas that year.”

“That’s unfortunate. And it’s taken you this long to reconnect?”

“Something like that.” Sherlock ducked his head. “There were a few outside forces that kept us from reuniting earlier than this, or we would have for sure.”

“So, what about that overdose of yours in 2005, then?”

“My last one?” Sherlock blinked, “I don’t believe in miracles, but I thought I saw an angel that day, Lestrade.”

“You said _you_ were the one who called 999, Vic?” Greg asked, remembering an earlier comment made about that phone-call.

“Yes, sir. I didn’t ... quite introduce myself over the phone that day, did I?”

“No, and I’m not sure I got a name for you when we showed up to get him.” Greg leaned back in the chair, studying JM. “I _thought_ you looked familiar, but I didn’t want to say.”

“What made you think that?”

“You have a rather unique face, and for all the scoffing that one does, I have to be good at a _few_ things.” He gave Sherlock a look.

“You wouldn’t have got so far in your career if you were ignorant or dull-witted, Inspector,” JM said decisively. “Word has it on the rather reliable streets of London that _you_ are the best The Met has to offer.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go _that_ far.” Greg shrugged, though internally he was preening. He wasn’t anything terribly special, but he didn’t mind a bit of sweet-talking after the bullshit he’d put up with earlier.

“Oh, stop that.” Sherlock scolded, “You’re one of the best men I know, Lestrade, don’t do that to yourself.”

“Thank you, Sherlock, but after the way your brother treated me earlier, I’m a little hard on myself.”

“Mycroft Holmes is a pompous git who would just as soon sell his own mother to protect state secrets,” JM said drolly, causing Greg to choke.

“I thought that was more your line, Vic,” Sherlock responded with a sniff. “Not my brother’s.”

“My mother is long in her grave and long may she rot there, but I would have given her away for free if it was worth the trouble.” JM took a sip of tea as if there was nothing unusual about the turn of conversation.

“Alright, you two, that’s enough.” John came out of the kitchen with a flannel over one shoulder, “You’re scaring Greg. None of that.”

“Oh, he’s fine!”

“Knock it off. It’s time to eat, you can discuss dead mothers and eternal damnation later.” He said gruffly, indicating the kitchen with a jerk of his head. Greg shoved to his feet, grabbed his half-empty cup, and headed for the table, which was clean of any caustic experiments or questionable biological materials. The whole kitchen looked cleaner, in fact, and he was kind of impressed.

“Who’s your housekeeper, Sherlock?”

“Well, it’s not Mrs Hudson.”

“God bless her, she has enough to worry about with the two of _you_ up here without having to clean up after you, too!” Moran scolded, “That woman is a fucking _saint_ for putting up with you two characters!”

“Love you, too, Sebby!” JM blew Moran a cheerful, belligerent kiss that had both veterans rolling their eyes.

“How do _you_ two know each other, then?”

“Oh, Seb works for _me_. Has for almost ten years.” JM smirked as they sat down at the table together. “Well, on a sort of at-will basis. It’s only in the last year that he got to go full-time for me.”

“Do I want to know how you met each other?”

“That story might be best saved for another time. It’s a bit of a long, involved one.” John said, setting down plates for each of them. “Talk later, eat now. Doctor’s orders.” Greg had been involved with Baker Street long enough he knew when John was changing the subject of conversation. Whatever the story was, it was probably something he _wasn’t_ supposed to actually know about.

 

But instead of pressing the issue, Greg went over what he already knew of the situation, piecing together bits of intel, facts, and evidence to get a better idea of what he was up against. It was quite obvious that Sherlock and JM were old friends who had lost touch in Uni, through some catastrophic means that had kept them apart for ten years. JM might have been the one to find Sherlock and call the authorities for help in 2005, but clearly, Sherlock _didn’t_ remember that incident well. No surprise, considering he’d been practically DOA when they got to him. Greg remembered meeting the 999-caller, who had found Sherlock and stayed with him until help could come, and thinking there was something about the man that just seemed … well, not quite dangerous, but certainly he had struck Greg as someone to be aware of. He couldn’t remember if they’d gotten a name for him, but Greg _did_ remember him making an unusual request as they loaded Sherlock into the ambulance.

 _“If his brother asks who found him, tell him it was just a concerned citizen. He doesn’t have to know that I was the one who found Sherlock Holmes.”_ He had said. That was a flag, someone who knew the brothers but didn’t want Mycroft to know.

_“You know Mycroft Holmes, then?”_

_“Yes, and I would be very grateful if he didn’t know I was involved with this operation.”_ The man had said, looking into the ambulance as the medics worked over Sherlock’s insensate body, _“We don’t … quite get along.”_ So, Greg had left it alone, he wasn’t in a huge hurry to out someone to Mycroft Holmes, not when they were only trying to help and were obviously concerned about Sherlock’s well-being. He remembered a bit of a stand-off between the caller and the medics when he insisted on going to the hospital with them, and stepping in on the caller’s behalf.

 

That had been the last he’d seen of either of the boys until the man had shown up at The Met looking for Greg three days later. He wanted to file reports about the night he had called 999. It was a strange thing and not really routine, but Greg hadn’t minded getting a statement from him. On the paperwork, he had gotten a proper name. J Moriarty. What did the J stand for, again? Greg looked across the table at JM as they ate breakfast, pieces coming together, and suddenly, the missing name hit him: Jim Moriarty.

“Jim.” He set down his coffee cup. “Holy shit.”

“Hmm?” The boys looked at him.

“Oh, now I remember you!” He leaned back in his chair, “You’re Jim Moriarty! I thought I knew your name from somewhere! But that was five years ago!”

“And you still remembered my name?” JM smiled a little sadly, “Well done, Inspector. You really are a very smart man.”

“Look, I’m in absolutely no bloody hurry to out you to Mycroft Holmes right now any more than I was that day you showed up at The Met to file a statement.” He picked up his fork and took a bite of eggs, “I _never_ told him who you were, just that Sherlock had been found by some concerned citizen who called the authorities and stayed with him until we could get to him. No names, not even a physical description.”

“And Mycroft didn’t have as much power five years ago as he does now, abusing CCTV cameras wasn’t really something he could get away with back then.” Sherlock looked at JM and smiled. “So it _was_ you that night? I _wasn’t_ dreaming?”

“You weren’t dreaming. Not that night and not any other time you thought you might have seen me.”

“Mycroft is going to be furious when he finds out.”

“Well, if he does, it won’t be because I said anything.” Greg took a sip of coffee. “I mean, I should be putting you in cuffs by all rights, Mr Moriarty, but I’m not about to.”

“Thank you for that, Inspector Lestrade. I’m not sure anyone else would have so much self-control.”

“It’s not self-control, it’s apathy. I don’t _care_ to put you in handcuffs if I don’t have to.”

“My record is _not_ clean, Inspector.”

“I don’t care.” He shrugged. “I just. Don’t.  Care.”

“That was easy,” Moran muttered.

“But if you hurt Sherlock Holmes or break his heart, _that_ is an entirely different game and I may not have so much patience or restraint.”

“And I wouldn’t expect you to!”

“So, what’s  the whole story, then?”

“Well, where do we _start_?”

“Try the beginning.” He waved his fork at the pair, an odd pair but well-matched. “I know how you met, I want to know why you lost touch.”

“John was right, it _is_ a bit of a long story.” Sherlock tilted his head. “Are you sure you have the time for it?”

“Son, for all anyone at the office knows, you forgot to file your reports.”

“Which I didn’t.”

“They don’t know that. You might have left something out the first time. I spend enough time around here any way they’re not going to look crooked at me if I spend the morning at Baker Street.”

“He’s got a point, Sherlock.”

“Thank you, John.”

“No problem.” John just smiled at him, “Want more coffee?”

“If you’ve got some, I could definitely use another cup.”

“You could probably use a pot to yourself the way you’ve been going.” John rolled his eyes and took Greg’s cup. “Cigarettes and canteen-swill coffee is not a doctor-recommended diet for anyone, you know.”

“Sorry?”

“Not sorry enough.”

“Oh, leave the man alone, Watson.” Moran scolded, “At least he tries.” Greg snickered, not missing the dirty look he got. This is why he was such good friends with John Watson.

“Listen, we’ll take care of wash-up, you three need to talk,” Moran said as he collected empty plates.

“Thanks.”

“And make sure you tell him _everything_.”

“We will, Seb. Don’t worry.” Sherlock got up from the table and looked at JM, “Shall we?”

“After you.”

“Come on, boys. I think it’s story-time.” Greg stood up, taking his coffee with him, and headed for the sitting-room. He sat on the couch, JM sat in John’s chair, and Sherlock sat in _his_ chair.

“Alright, let’s start with Christmas 2000. What happened?” He set his cup on the coffee table and got comfortable for what promised to be a bit of a long haul.

 

It was as awful as he had expected it might be, and he felt nothing but spite for Mycroft Holmes. Admiration for the boys, especially for Moran, who had been assigned a specific hit and turned on his bosses to save the man he’d been sent to kill, and for JM who had left behind Victor Trevor to return to his original persona of Jim Moriarty. He had been born James Victor Moriarty in 1976, had gone by Jim from the age of nine until he started University in ‘94, at which time he adopted the name of Victor Trevor. That was the name Sherlock had known him by for two years. They had met in 1998, started dating shortly after, and had moved into a flat in Rupert Street in Soho in late 1999 or early 2000. Apparently, Mycroft had arranged for the flat after JM got a job working at The British Museum.

 

For a while, things had been good. Sherlock’s studies were going well, JM was enjoying his job, and they had an opportunity to introduce JM to Sherlock’s parents. Who, not surprisingly, had fallen in love with the man their son brought home. Mycroft, of course, had his reservations and did not keep them to himself.

“He doesn’t really know how to keep his opinion to himself, does he?” Greg mused.

“Tact has never really been my brother’s strongest quality,” Sherlock said bluntly. “He’s good at diplomacy when he needs to be, of course, but if he doesn’t think it’s necessary, then … ”

“All bets are off. How did he get so far with such a terrible attitude?” He wondered. “Never mind the man’s temper.”

“See, _that’s_ where this story gets kind of … grim.” JM looked extremely uncomfortable, but he didn’t pull away from Sherlock when the taller brunet reached for him. “And where Moran comes into the picture.”

“I take it anything I hear going forward from here is absolutely confidential?”

“So help you God if anyone finds out you know what we’re about to tell you.” JM looked up at him, his brown eyes nearly black. Greg instinctively looked around the cluttered, chaotic sitting-room for any hidden devices. Then recalling Mycroft’s complaints that the newly installed cameras had suddenly malfunctioned. Nothing said here would be recorded by Mycroft’s devices. That didn’t mean JM didn’t have his own AV devices, but Greg felt slightly safer knowing there was _some_ kind of surveillance on this place.

“Mycroft hasn’t been listening in on Baker Street since the beginning of this month, Inspector.” JM had seen him casing the room.

“I gathered as much from his complaints earlier.”

“The cameras and listening devices installed in this flat are mine, no one else’s, and mine are the only eyes on Baker Street.”

“Much to Big Brother’s disdain. No wonder he was in such a foul mood.” Greg took a sip of coffee. “So, what happened to you? Clearly, something happened to Victor Trevor.”

“Yes. To put it mildly.” JM looked at Sherlock, who looked absolutely stricken. “It was quite possibly one of the most terrifying incidents of my life, and I’ve seen and experienced quite a few things most people would baulk at.”

“I can think of a couple.” Greg looked at the notes he’d been taking, having, of course, asked permission beforehand to do so.

“Three days before Christmas, I went down to Sherrinford. That’s our old family estate in Sussex Downs.” Sherlock spoke up then, “I had wanted to go to Paris for Christmas with Vic, but he convinced me to stay local and we would spend it instead with my parents. Mummy and Daddy were, of course, absolutely thrilled about seeing us again.”

“You didn’t go with him, Vic?”

“No, sir, I was to follow in three days and be there in time for Christmas Eve.” JM shook his head, “That was our arrangement. Lock had something he wanted to do before I arrived, so I agreed to come down on a later date.”

“But you never reached Sherrinford in time for Christmas Eve.” Greg didn’t put that as a question. He _knew_ Victor Trevor hadn’t made it to Sherrinford for Christmas Eve.

“No, I didn’t. About seven miles from the estate, I was involved in a traffic incident with another vehicle that had braked in front of me without warning. I didn’t … I didn’t have time to stop or swerve.”

“You hit the other car head on?”

“Yes, sir. My front to their rear.”

“Middle of fucking nowhere and you slammed into the back of another car on Christmas Eve?”

“Apparently. I had been behind this car for quite a few miles before the accident occurred, had passed them several times as they were driving quite a bit below the speed-limits.” JM frowned, “So, when they suddenly braked, it really was just a matter of time before they pulled a stunt like that.”

“You must have hit them and spun out, even going posted speeds.”

“Exactly.” JM looked towards the kitchen, “My car, which was by no means inadequate for the time of year or the road-conditions, spun off the road because of the angle at _which_ I hit them and bounced off.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” JM said softly, turning to Sherlock, who looked like he was about to cry, “You never knew?”

“I knew it was an accident! Or at least … that’s what they said it was!”

“You were driving a 1996-model Range Rover, metallic blue, manual transmission, that day?”

“Yes, that’s … exactly the car I was driving.” JM looked at him suspiciously, “How on earth did you know that?”

“Damn it, Vic.” Greg sighed, “You and me keep running into each other! In the damnest places!”

“Why … would you know anything about the car Vic was driving that day?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“Because I was with Kent Police at the time and got called out for a vehicular incident of uncertain severity. Just right outside of Stonegate, it was. Two cars, total loss. At least one was dead, according to the caller.” Greg shook his head, remembering that particular call almost too clearly. “One DOA, the other survived long enough to get to a hospital. I knew the driver in the blue Rover was our DOA, there was no _way_ someone could survive an impact like that. There were tracks everywhere, of course, but the bloke who _called_ us had stuck around.”

“Seb?” Two voices spoke in unison and they all three looked towards the kitchen.

“Must’ve been. But why would he have stayed?” JM shook his had.

“Dunno, but I showed up first, believe it or not, and got waved down by this bloke in fatigues, blood on ‘im, fear of God in his eyes. That’s the best way to describe his expression.” Greg watched the taller blond, “Apparently, according to him, he’d seen the whole mess and tried to help. He had tried to wave down another motorist, but couldn’t get anyone to stop, he said.”

“You had no idea you were speaking to the gunman, did you?”

“No, I didn’t.” He folded his hands between his knees, “Never occurred to me that there might’ve been something off about it, somethin’ not quite right. I was so stunned that anything had happened on Christmas Eve, after complaining about it to another constable, and the sight of broken glass and twisted metal … ”

“You … were there?”

“Yeah. But as soon as they had the victims taken care of, one to the nearest morgue and the other to the nearest hospital, which I think were actually in the same place, the senior sent me on to notify the DOA’s next-of-kin.” He looked at Sherlock then, feeling sick at heart. “I don’t suppose you remember the police officer who came to tell you your boyfriend had died in a car-accident on Bardown Road between Nomanswood and Stonegate, do you?” 

“Not … very well. I just remember screaming.” Sherlock wiped at his eyes. “And I kept screaming. Someone caught me before I fell over, they kept telling me … how sorry they were, but they figured it must’ve been quick.”

“That … was me, Sherlock.” Greg shook his head, “That accident, and _your_ reaction to the news I had to give you, that stayed with me. I didn’t know who you were at that time, I wouldn’t for another two years.”

“When you took a transfer to London and started working for The Met.”

“Right, and I kept digging up this clever drop-out junkie who just … knew things about our crime-scenes that couldn’t possibly be common knowledge.”

“I’m sorry, Greg.”

“You … ” Greg blinked. “Holy shit, you _do_ know my name.”

“I’ve known your name for ten years. I never said anything because … well, I wasn’t sure if you remembered _me_.”

“I didn’t even know your _name_ , Sherlock.” Greg looked at the detective he remembered as a much, _much_ younger man.

“And you’re just now putting together those pieces, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” He put his head in both hands. “Listen, I’m … sorry. I hate giving notice to next-of-kin, it’s the worst part of my job. But … ”

“It’s not your fault, Greg. You were just _doing_ your job. And you’ve always been rather good at it.” Sherlock had gotten up without him noticing and come to where he sat on the couch. “Did you know, after you left and I had calmed down a little, Daddy said something about you?”

“Christ, I can’t imagine it was anything too nice, considering why I was knocking on their door in the first place.”

“He said he’d never met such a nice young man and if you wanted, you could do anything. He said you could climb all the way to the top of the ladder if you wanted.”

“Really?” Greg looked up a little bit. He couldn’t believe a grieving family-member would have said _that_ about him.

“Daddy really did like you, and he knew you didn’t want to be telling us about Vic’s … accident. He said the human element gets lost sometimes in the routine of duty, he knew what it was like, but he didn’t want you to lose yours. He said that’s what made you so … special.”

“Christ, I barely remember your parents!”

“They certainly remember you.” Sherlock held out one hand, “I think Mummy has a picture of you somewhere in the house.”

“I need to _properly_ meet your parents, Sherlock.”

“They would love to meet you again.”

“Not to … break the mood or anything,” JM said carefully, “But what are we going to do about Mycroft Holmes?”

“What, precisely, did my brother ask you to do for him, Greg?” Sherlock asked.

“He asked me to spy on you.”

“He did?”

“Mhm. Suggested that, since I apparently have nothing better to do with my time, I could afford a few hours to stake out Baker Street and find out where you’ve been going, what you’ve been doing, and who you’ve been spending time with.”

“How rude!”

“Oh, I told him off for that. He seems to think that you’re in some kind of danger, and since all other avenues have failed him, he was going to solicit _my_ services to get answers.”

“Oh, Mycroft.” JM made a noise in his throat, “That nosy bastard can’t mind his own fucking business.”

“I told him no, and I wasn’t very nice about it.” Greg rubbed his wrist absentmindedly. “I came right over here from that meeting, that’s why I was in such a fit when I showed up.”

“We gathered as much from what you told us before.” Sherlock cracked a bit of a smile. “You spoke of contemplating murder on my brother.”

“Well, yeah, can you blame me? But in case you were wondering, I’m _not_ interested in spying on you for any money. He can take my job, he can take my badge, he can threaten and bluster, but my integrity won’t let me do that to you.”

“Thank you, Lestrade.” Sherlock had returned to his chair, hands folded before his face, but Greg saw a bit of a smile.

“So, what to do about Mycroft Holmes, then?” JM asked. Greg thought about it for a minute and got to his feet, pacing by the fireplace a bit.

“What’s in your head, Lestrade? I can hear you thinking.” Sherlock said curiously.

“Well, your brother’s manner has been just a trifle cavalier to me, I’d like to have a little amusement at his expense.” Greg mused, leaning against the mantle, “After the way he’s treated me, and knowing what I do about the two of you, I can think of a few ways to do that.”

“Such as?”

“Well, if he’s really that desperate to get eyes on you, some knowledge of your doings and whereabouts, and his usual methods continue to fail him.”

“He’ll come crawling back,” John spoke up then from the kitchen, and Greg turned to see the two of them standing side-by-side. It was interesting to see the different dynamics, the different couples.

“And when he _does_ , you’ll tell him you’d be happy to take the surveillance job on Baker Street and it’s residents.” Sherlock chuckled. “Oh, we can have _so_ much fun with this!”

“Boys,” Greg turned to look at the pair of consultants and smiled. “It’s time to go fishing.”

“Fishing?” They traded a puzzled look.

“If it’s intel and evidence your brother _wants_ , it’s intel and evidence he’ll _get_.” He was turning ideas over in his head. “But he’ll get them on _our_ terms, not on his. He’s expecting me to stake out Baker Street and sneak around trying to catch you doing whatever mischief he’s convinced you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“But instead of sneaking around, you’ll just “happen” to find us and take our pictures.” JM was starting to smile. “Oh, you are a devious one, Inspector Lestrade.”

“He’s not going to know any different, and I don’t particularly care if he does.” Greg studied the skull for a minute before he picked it up and gave it a shake. Something rattled inside and he turned it over.

“Ah ha, I knew you had some stashed. Thought John hid ‘em all.”

“Why would I _hide_ them?” John asked from the kitchen, having retreated there for some business. It sounded like he was making tea again.

“Oh?” He shook the stash of cigarettes loose and eyed the veteran. “You, John?”

“Always something.”

“Huh. Well, I don’t suppose any of you mind?”

“Help yourself!” John just smiled. “Save one for me, will you?”

“Happy to.” He tapped the pack and opened the lid with his thumb, looking at the other three. “Boys?”

“Oh, why not.” JM shrugged. Greg chuckled and took one for himself before offering it to the boys. JM took one for himself and one for Sherlock, Seb stole two, and Greg tossed the pack in John’s direction.

“Ta, mate.” John caught it neatly in one hand, having anticipated the throw, and set it on the tray he was holding. Setting the tray on the coffee table, he picked up the pack and opened it.

“Oh, not again.” He made a sound of disgust, “Seb! Did you take two again?”

“Cheers, Captain!” Moran just smiled cheekily as he tucked one of the cigarettes behind his ear and lit the other.

“Poison your coffee for that, you bastard.” John muttered, handing out cups. “A bit not good, Seb. Bit. Not. Good.”

“Oh, you love me!”    

“Do I really?” John just raised an eyebrow as he took a cigarette for himself and lit it. Greg snickered. Mrs Hudson was going to have something to complain about for sure, but he couldn’t quite be sorry about it. It got quiet in the sitting-room as they all settled into their tasks, whatever they were this morning. It was a comfortable, easy quiet, though. He couldn’t stay here _all_ day, as enchanting as that sounded, but he would stay as long as he could.

 

Moran wisely cracked the windows to let in a bit of fresh air and hopefully limit the scope of Mrs Hudson’s ranting because of the smoking. Sherlock drank his tea, wandered through the kitchen to the bathroom, came back a few moments later, and ambled over to the window where he kept his violin. It wasn’t long before the melody in his head was coming from the well-loved instrument, and Greg smiled. While Sherlock composed and played for them, John worked on something on his laptop, JM read one of the numerous volumes gracing the Baker Street bookshelves, and Moran did something in the kitchen. A loud, familiar click got Greg’s attention and he looked over his shoulder.

“What on earth are you _doing_ in there, Colonel?”

“A bit of housekeeping is all, Inspector!”

“Yeah, right.” Greg snorted and went to investigate. Sure enough, he found Moran sitting at the kitchen table, which had been cleared from breakfast and of Sherlock’s experiments and covered with a heavy canvas tarp, with what looked to be three different firearms in various states of assembly spread out around him, along with the various components of a gun-cleaning kit.

“This is your idea of housekeeping?”

“All of these are properly licensed and registered, Inspector,” Moran said calmly as he dismantled and parted out a sniper rifle.

“What’s that one?”

“Arctic Warfare Covert, sir. Takes a clip of ten 7.62x51mm NATO Subsonic.”

“Any good with it?”

“One of the best in the service, Greg!” John called from his perch. “That man’s trigger-finger saved my sorry arse more than a couple of times in Afghanistan!”

“A useful friend to have in a retired sniper, huh?”

“Semi-retired, Inspector. Semi-retired.”

“Ah, well, someone’s gotta keep Moriarty’s rivals in cheque, yeah? Keep any unscrupulous characters from trying to finish Mycroft Holmes’s unfinished dirty work?”

“Why do you think I stuck around?”

“God bless you, Colonel.” He did something impulsive and patted Moran on the shoulder. Greg didn’t know why he did it, it was just … instinct, of sorts.

“Speaking of. How’s your sidearm handling these days, Inspector?”

“Hmm?”

“That handsome Glock 17 you have in your holster. Any good with it?”

“Not too shabby. Why?”

“When’s the last time you took a minute to clean it proper?”

“Oh, Christ. Probably _too_ long.” He thought dismally of a case from a few days ago, one on which he had not called Baker Street, in the course of which his sidearm had taken some damage. It still fired right, but it was in desperate need of some TLC. Greg just hadn’t had the time to see to that between work, wrangling Sherlock, and this latest budding scandal on Baker Street.

“Well, seeing as how you took a swim in the Thames last Thursday going after a suspect on the lam, I can only imagine.” Moran looked up at him briefly without ever once pausing in what he was doing.

“You did _what_?”

“Oh, hush, John.” Greg rolled his eyes. “I _know_ you two read all about that mess in the papers! Surprised Sherlock didn’t call to gloat, or show up in my office for the same!”

“We were actually debating if we would need to inquire at the hospitals to find you after that,” Sherlock said carefully.

“Thankfully, we didn’t, but next time, Greg?”

“Yeah, I know, I know. Don’t go doing something you would do without you on my six. I _know_.” Greg huffed, reaching to draw his sidearm. Without thinking twice, and checking only to see that it was in safety, he slapped it into Moran’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you, sir.”

“I can’t walk out of here without my sidearm, you know.”

“Oh, you won’t.” Moran set the gun on the table next to the rifle he was working on before handing Greg a set of keys.

“What’s this for?”

“We don’t keep our armoury on Baker Street, we just bring kits in with us when we stay over.” Moran was back at work, methodical and focused, it was kind of mesmerizing to watch. “That’s the keys to one of our London stash-houses. They’re all under 24-7 guard, but the lads won’t bother you, if you see them at all.”

“What, is my name on a list or something?”

“Actually?”

“Figured it couldn’t hurt to ask.” He chuckled and tossed the keys, checking his watch. “Well, I’ve been out of the office long enough, I’d better head back before Donovan launches a man-hunt.”

“Oh, and if you wouldn’t mind leaving your phone behind as well.  You’ll get everything back, of course.”

“Why am I leaving my phone here?”

“So we can sweep it for you.” Moran looked up from his task but didn’t stop working.

“Wouldn’t surprise me one bit of that moron tagged it with a tracking device. I don’t suppose you’ve got scramblers installed?”

“Absolutely. And all of us have replaced our phones since the first of the month.”

“Well, I have been eyeing an upgrade on this piece of junk.” Greg set his phone on the table as well after giving it a curious, penetrating study. Greg put his hands in his pockets, and found something.

“Oh, hello. What’s this?” He pulled out a small, button-sized object. A tracking device. Oh, Mycroft thought he was sly, didn’t he? With a snort, he tossed the tracker onto the table.

“Huh. That’s brazen.”

“That’s Mycroft Holmes for you.” He looked around, “What are you willing to bet that every single tracker on me stopped working the minute I got here?”

“Because it did. You would lose your money, I’m afraid, Lestrade.” Sherlock drawled from the window, where he still played. Greg chuckled and headed for the door.

“Well, gents, it’s been a very interesting and informative morning, but I had better be on my way.”

“Stay in touch, Greg.”

“Not a problem.” He looked towards the kitchen as he opened the door to the landing. “Er, where exactly am I going, Colonel?”

“Queen Anne Mews, W1/Vanguard Self Storage. The unit number is on the keys.”

“Tah. Well, I guess I’ll see you boys later.” He headed down the stairs, “Don’t do anything stupid!”

“We won’t!” They chimed in unison. Not that he believed them for a minute. In rather high spirits, Greg trotted down the stairs and headed for the front door.

“Oh, good morning, Greg!” Of course, Mrs Hudson caught him with one foot out the door, “I didn’t hear you come in!”

“’Morning, Mrs Hudson!” Greg looked at the saintly landlady looking after the boys and smiled. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear me come in earlier considering the commotion I caused.”

“Oh? Trouble?”

“A bit, but your unlikely tenants are not my problem at the moment.”

“Ah, you met Victor?”

“And Seb. I take it you don’t see as much of the boys as you used to?”

“Oh, I see _plenty_ of them!” Mrs Hudson beamed at him, “Did you know, Victor, that _sweet_ boy, brings me flowers every week?”

“I’m not surprised to hear that.”

“Oh, and Sebastian gave me a dog for company when I’m here by myself!”

“Oh?”

“Mhm. Would you like to meet him?”

“I think I had better do that, Mrs Hudson, or risk getting my throat torn out the next time I charge in here unannounced.” Greg closed the door again, suspecting Mrs Hudson’s new canine friend wasn’t the only one on Baker Street, just the only one permanently assigned to the house momentarily. He followed Mrs Hudson into her flat and was immediately greeted by an alert, fierce-looking German Shepherd who growled as Greg entered the flat behind Mrs Hudson.

“Oh, he’s a big lad, isn’t he? You can handle him by yourself, Mrs Hudson?”

“One of Sebastian’s boys comes to keep me company sometimes, give me tips on handling Teddy.”

“You named the dog Teddy?” That was an interesting name for a dog fully capable of seriously injuring a man.

“Absolutely! Not _all_ German Shepherds have to have scary names, you know.”

“I’ll be damned.” Greg held out one hand carefully to the massive dog giving him the stink-eye as he crouched. He knew how to approach strange, suspicious dogs, earn their trust. It might take a couple of visits to Baker Street to fully gain Teddy’s trust, but he was willing to make that effort.

 

After some posturing and growling, and pacing, slinking in and out of reach, Teddy got a good sniff of Greg’s coat and decided he wasn’t as threatening as he’d seemed before.

“Ah, that’s a good boy. That’s right, Teddy, I’m a good guy. I’m a friend, I promise.” He smiled and carefully petted Teddy, who was a little shy of that kind of contact, but let Greg stroke his neck and chest before deciding that was enough for the moment. He nipped the heel of Greg’s hand as he moved away, no teeth just a bit of pressure.

“Okay.” He seemed to say. “You’re good for now. Off you go, then.”

“I think I was just dismissed by a dog.” Greg chuckled as he got to his feet and brushed his hands off on his trousers. “Well, Mrs Hudson, it was lovely to chat for a while. Thank you for introducing me to Teddy.”

“You’re welcome any time, Greg, dear.” Mrs Hudson smiled as she walked him to the door, Teddy right beside her, “Do be safe out there, will you?”

“Can’t make any promises, but I’ll do my best.” He said as they stood on the stoop. “Have a peaceful day, Mrs Hudson. Feel free to call me if the boys make too much of a racket, alright?”

“Oh, of course! Now, go on!” She gave him a fond swat on the hip as he kissed her on the cheek. “London needs saving!”

“Let’s see if it wants to be saved.” He rolled his eyes and headed for his car, “Bye, Mrs Hudson!”

“Goodbye, dear!” Mrs Hudson waved, watching him get into his car and pull away, and probably until he was well out of sight. She was like that, and Greg kind of appreciated her concern.

* * *

* * *


	12. Merry Tension : Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg Lestrade has enough to worry about without Baker Street adding on more stress, but it's been quiet on that front for a while now. However, peace is never long-lived in his division and it's no time at all before his routine is rudely interrupted by Mycroft Holmes. This had better be worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of three-part instalment.

* * *

* * *

Instead of heading straight back to the office, Greg made a quick detour to Queen Anne Mews, where he paid a short visit to W1/Vanguard Self Storage. It took a while to get to the location, and he got turned around at _least_ once trying to find the indicated unit. But once he found it, he used the key to get in and was impressed to step into what was essentially a fully-stocked armoury. There were kit-lockers, work benches, racks of firearms of all styles and capacity, and stacks of ammunition boxes with nearly every calibre that existed both on the open market and otherwise.

 

Greg’s attention was drawn to one of the lockers, which seemed to have names written on them. There were three he was actually interested in, because two had John’s name and another Moran’s. What surprised him, or would have if he hadn’t just spent several hours at Baker Street getting some fact-checking and collecting intel, was one locker that had _his_ name written on it. Opening the locker labelled “G. Lestrade”, he found a full kit. There was a uniform identical to the one he’d seen John and Moran wear, the one they’d been wearing this morning in fact, and a selection of every firearm on the racks. There was a duplicate of the Glock he’d left behind at Baker Street, which he hesitated over, and something a great deal older.

“A Ballester Molina?” He picked up the beautifully-maintained .45 pistol, an Argentinian derivative of the American Colt 1911 pistol and fairly reliable. “Ooh, I haven’t seen one of these in a while. You’re coming with me.” Finding the ammunition and a few extra clips after loading but not arming the gun, Greg remembered that he also needed to replace his phone. A safe-box in the locker contained an impressive array of mobile phones. Greg settled for an iPhone 4, it was a huge step up from the phone he’d left at Baker Street, a much older iPhone 3G he had been carrying around since he’d gotten it in 2008. Time for a long-overdue upgrade.

 

Hoping to God his computer at work wasn’t bugged, never mind his desk-phone, Greg finished up at the storage unit and left as quietly as he’d arrived. No one bothered him, but a couple of security guards he passed, all wearing the familiar JVM Capital uniform, nodded and said good morning.

“’Morning, lads.” He said politely on his way out the door.

“Good morning, Inspector. Did you find everything alright?”

“Yes, I did. Thank you.” He smiled as he left the building.

 

Returning to where he had parked his car, Greg headed back to the office. He found everything pretty much as he’d left it, but people gave him a wide berth. They were remembering how he had practically stormed out of the place in a fit just after Mycroft Holmes had walked away from his office. Hanging his coat, Greg held onto the iPhone 4 and headed for Paul Dimmock’s office. The young DI’s office was the best place he could think of to set up his new phone short of stopping by an Apple store somewhere in London, and he also needed to call John. He found Dimmock hunched over a stack of files nearly as tall as he was sitting down and felt bad knocking on his door.

“Hey, Paul? You busy?”

“Hmm?” Dimmock looked up and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, Greg! Hi! Where on earth have _you_ been? It’s almost noon!”

“Yeah, sorry about that. I had to stop by Baker Street for something.”

“Holmes stealing evidence again?”

“Christ, no, not this time.” Greg chuckled. “No, he, uh, had something for me.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, that was nice of him.” Dimmock smiled. “So, what can I do for you then?”

“I was hoping I might bother you for the use of your desktop and your phone.”

“Well, I don’t see why not. Can I ask why you can’t use yours?”

“Pretty sure my office is bugged.”

“By _whom_?”

“If you’ve never met Mycroft Holmes, hope you never do.” Greg sighed and closed the door just shy of the jamb.

“No, I don’t think I have.” He said.

“Well, he’s an interfering busybody and I’d be a damn fool if I thought he hasn’t bugged my office. After that encounter earlier this morning, I think you’d understand if I would rather not have much to do with him just at the moment.”

“Oh, gosh, not at all!” Dimmock smiled and got to his feet, “I have suspects to question, so my office is all yours!”

“The Templeton case?”

“Let’s see if I can get the mother-in-law to talk to me, eh?” Dimmock picked up a notebook and biro and left the office once Greg was seated.

“Good luck, Greg.”

“Thanks, Paul. You too.” Greg waved as Dimmock made sure to close his door as he left. As soon as he was alone, Greg logged into his work-account and opened his browser. Using the USB plug that the phone had come with (it was in the original packaging), he plugged the phone into the computer and made sure it wouldn’t be remembered by the computer. Then he set about getting his new phone sorted and called Baker Street from Dimmock’s desk-phone. It rang three times before anyone answered and he was about to hang up before it clicked over.

 _“Hello?”_ It was John.

_“Hey, John. It’s Greg.”_

_“Oh, hey, Greg! Did you make it back to The Yard alright?”_

_“Yeah, I’m borrowing Dimmock’s office for a few minutes. I had a quick question.”_

_“Fire away.”_

_“I know Mycroft bugged my office, are those devices still installed?”_ He was really hoping he got a negative answer.

 _“Uh. Hang on a second.”_ He heard John cover the receiver and ask someone a question, a response was given by a rather unexpected party.

_“Inspector Lestrade?”_

_“Mr Moriarty.”_

_“What can I do for you, sir?”_

_“Well, you may have done it already, but I was hoping someone could tell me if Mycroft Holmes still has eyes on my workplace.”_

_“No, Inspector, he does not. Hasn’t for a few weeks.”_

_“But you do?”_ Greg raised an eyebrow.

_“Of course I do! If you don’t mind me keeping an eye on you?”_

_“Better you than Holmes, sir.”_ He sighed and looked over as the computer signalled that the update was complete on his new phone. Unplugging everything, he logged out of Dimmock’s computer after clearing his search-history and all traces that he’d ever used the machine in the first place. Just then, the door open and Dimmock appeared again. Greg knew that expression and held up one finger. Dimmock nodded and ducked out, closing the door enough to give him the necessary privacy to finish his phone call.

_“Sorry to cut this short, but something’s come up. I’ll be in touch?”_

_“Good luck, Inspector. In-laws can always be a tricky bunch to deal with.”_ He didn’t have to be in the same room to know Moriarty was smiling and instinctively looked for cameras.

_“Oh, you sneaky little bastard!”_

_“Hello!”_

_“I have work to do, you just behave yourself for a couple of hours. Do you mind?”_

_“I promise nothing!”_

_“Well, don’t kill anyone, will you?”_

_“But what if they deserve it?”_

_“No.”_

_“Killjoy,”_ Moriarty muttered, sounding every bit like a petulant teenager who’s been told he can’t spend time with his mates because he’s been grounded. In the background, Greg heard the others laughing.

 _“Goodbye, JM.”_ He said, hanging up with a chuckle. Shaking his head, he pocketed his phone and made sure he hadn’t left anything behind. No, he had everything. Leaving Dimmock’s office exactly as he’d found it, Greg met Dimmock outside.

“Mother-in-law’s not talking?”

“Well, she hasn’t invoked, she’s just being … difficult.”

“Want me to take a swing?”

“Please?” Dimmock wasn’t quite begging. Greg smiled and patted the younger DI on the shoulder.

“Give me a minute, I’ll grab my stuff from my office and we’ll go see if we can’t crack this one open.”

“Thank you.” Dimmock heaved a sigh of relief and watched him go. “Did you get everything worked out, sir?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact!” He looked over his shoulder with a smile. “Meet you at the room, then?”

“Right, sir.” Dimmock saluted and took off. Greg wasn’t in his office for long and wasted no time joining Dimmock in the interview room. Time to see if they could get Mackenzie Templeton’s mother-in-law to talk.

 

Two hours later, Greg walked out of the room with Dimmock on his heels. The sound of sobbing filled the room behind them, but they felt no remorse for the woman sitting at the table in hysterics. Jean Stockton had played a pretty good game of hardball, but Greg had more than a couple of years under his belt and after a few rounds of Good Cop/Bad Cop, the silly woman had just completely folded. They had everything they could have possibly wanted on the case and as he locked the door, he looked at Dimmock.

“Let’s go get Jeffrey Templeton.”

“I’ll get a couple of uniforms for back up.” Dimmock looked at his watch.

“Good idea. I’ll take care of warrants and meet you in the car-park?”

“Yes, sir.” Dimmock peeled off and disappeared to go round up some backup units. Greg chuckled and detoured back to his office to write up a couple of warrants for Jeffrey Templeton. Once he had that business taken care of, he headed for his car and waited for the rest of them.

 

Dimmock arrived five minutes after he did with four uniformed officers and two sergeants: Nick Wilde, and Sally Donovan. Wilde was a pretty young kid who had a spark and intelligence to boot, not to mention looks to turn heads. He reminded Greg of himself when he’d been younger, just with red hair. He really did like Wilde, saw great promise for him. And, surprisingly, Sherlock didn’t call him a moron. He’d never figured out what that was about, but he knew better than to question and just took it in stride that there was someone on his team the freelancer didn’t absolutely despise.

 

Giving a quick break-down of what they were up against, Greg gave the order and they got underway. He debated on calling for his own reinforcements, but he didn’t want to react prematurely. It wasn’t that he didn’t think his guys could handle Templeton, he just would feel a little better if he had the likes of John and Moran on hand just in case.  And why it didn’t bother him more than someone as deadly and resourceful as Moriarty had basically made him part of the family was a bit of a mystery. Greg suspected it had to do with being fed up with Mycroft Holmes and the way the elder Holmes brother seemed to treat everyone else.

 

Of course, he should have known that with someone like Jim Moriarty keeping tabs on his every move, it was inevitable unasked for assistance would come without much forewarning. So, when he saw a black Land Rover parked along the kerb opposite as they pulled up at Jeffrey Templeton’s residence, he didn’t think much of it.

“Hey, Boss?” Wilde called from Dimmock’s car, having spotted the Rover, “We’ve got company.”

“Leave ‘em alone, Nick. It’s alright.”

“Oh, great. What are _they_ doing here? We don’t need them, do we?” Donovan made a sound of disgust when she sighted the car’s passengers.

“I know you don’t like them, but you really need to get over yourself.” He glared at his sergeant. “And no, I did _not_ call for them.”

“Then what are they doing here?”

“They’re here for _me_ , they’re here for my safety.”

“For … you, sir?”

“None of your business, Donovan.” He muttered, turning his attention to the rest of the group. “Alright, this is how it’s going to go. Granger, Mallory, you two stay with the cars. Wilde and Donovan, you’re on entry with Dimmock and myself. You’ll stay behind us at all times, but have your sidearms drawn and ready. If this gets violent, it may be necessary to use lethal force. Stanger, Bellamy, I want you two on flanking around the house. And last, but _not_ least, I want Watson and Moran to stay with Stanger and Bellamy. You four are on the spread, alright? Make sure this bastard doesn’t make a break for it, and if he does … ”

“Just say the word, Inspector,” Moran said casually, startling the rest of them. He and John had sort of snuck up on the rest of the group while Greg was talking, but to their credit, the two constables splitting the perimeter with John and Moran didn’t seem to mind having some back up of their own.

“Sir, we can’t afford involving outside parties, what if something goes wrong?” Donovan said in a low voice as they made their approach.

“If something goes wrong, I’ll take responsibility. Right now, Moran and Watson are my resources, and I’ll be damned if I don’t put them to good use.” He gave his sergeant a hard look. “I didn’t ask for them, but I won’t refuse their services.”

“But, sir … ”

“Donovan, you’re really not winning yourself any points today, so just do everyone a favour and keep your trap shut.” He snapped, “You’re the one who let Mycroft Holmes into my office this morning, and you know damn well how that debacle turned out, so if I were you!”

 

To her credit, Donovan took the hint and shut up. He watched John take one side of the house with Bellamy while Moran and Stanger took the other side, and wondered which pair would take the back. Mounting the stairs to the front door with Dimmock, leaving Donovan and Wilde on the footpath below, Greg knocked on the door. There was no answer, so he tried again. Clearly, someone was home, he could hear movement inside the house.

“Oh, no you don’t.” He muttered, pounding on the door with the butt of his gun. “Jeffrey Templeton, it’s The Met! Come to the door, please!”

“J-just a minute!” A muffled voice shouted from inside.

“Come to the door now, Mr Templeton!” He shouted back. He heard running footsteps inside and a sudden commotion in the back of the house. Gritting his teeth, he looked at Dimmock and squared up against the door. Time to do this the hard way, then. The door was unlocked, but it still took a few solid blows to get it open, and as the splintering frame gave way, he charged into the house and through to the back garden.

 

Broken glass littered the patio and the hardwood inside and he realized Templeton had jumped through a plate-glass sliding door. Dazed from the impact, both jumping through the glass and a hard tumble onto the brick patio, Templeton had gone down under assault from … oh, it was John sitting on him. Why was it always John Watson who managed the take-down for them? He’d gotten so used to seeing John sitting on a suspect he was hardly surprised. A metal jangle and a click declared that not only had John managed the take-down, he’d also cuffed their suspect.

“Good work, Watson!”

“Thank you, sir.” John looked up at him, “Moron jumped through a double-paned plate-glass door.”

“Made your job easy, didn’t it?” He chuckled, “We’ll get this one seen to, you go look after Bellamy.”

“Right, sir.” John took the hand he offered and once John was on his feet, Wilde and Donovan collected Templeton, who was in need of medical attention.

“Donovan, call for a bus, will you?”

“Right, sir.” Donovan nodded and raised her radio to put the call out while John went to look after Rachel Bellamy, who sat on the patio looking a bit dazed. Greg followed at a neutral distance and heard John declare that he could take care of this on-site. So, getting Bellamy to her feet, they headed back to their vehicles. John and Moran guided Bellamy over to their Rover and sat her on the back of it after opening the hatch.

“Looks like Doctor Watson travels with his work.” Dimmock mused as he stood next to Greg. “Where’d those two come from?”

“No idea. I’m just so used to them showing up wherever we happen to be I never really thought to ask exactly how they know where to find us.” He shrugged. “Not that I mind having that kind of help, though.”

“Me neither. You know, I’ve seen Watson and his partner on a few of my own scenes? Even if I don’t need them, they show up.”

“And nine times out of ten you end up needing them anyway,” Greg smirked. “Don’t question your luck with those two, Paul.” It did not surprise him that John and Moran showed up to other scenes besides his. Of course, knowing what he did about the surveillance in Dimmock’s office, it only made sense. But why was JM looking out for Dimmock, too?

 

The ambulance arrived in good time and they carted Jeffrey Templeton to the nearest hospital to get patched up before he had to answer some questions for them. Once the ambulance had taken off again, Greg went to see how things were going with Bellamy.

“Hey.” He leaned against the frame of the car. “We’ve got Templeton on his way to University, how’s Ray doing?”

“She’s a trooper, Greg.” John looked up from what he was doing and smiled.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Bellamy said quietly.

“Sorry for what?”

“I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Constable, you came away from that with a few scrapes, twelve stitches, and a nasty scare.” Moran scolded, “You could have suffered far worse if Templeton hadn’t jumped through the glass, or if he’d gotten a shot off. You were right in the line of fire.”

“He was armed?”

“Had a Glock 17 on him, but he dropped it when he fell.” John shook his head. “Lucky for us, or Bellamy would be in a lot more trouble.”

“Jesus Christ, Ray. How many times have I told you?” Greg sighed, rubbing his forehead, “Be more careful, kid, I can’t afford to lose you!”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll be more careful next time.”

“I’d put you on desk duty if I thought it would teach you sense, but that’s punishing you for the wrong reasons.” Greg looked at the gifted young Constable.

“Sir?” Bellamy’s eyes were wide, fearful of some reprimand.

“Half a mind to give you to Watson and Moran for a while.” He mused, mostly to himself. John and Moran just smiled at each other. It was something to think about, and it wouldn’t interfere with her other responsibilities. He had enough pull he could adjust schedules as needed and if he couldn’t, he was fairly certain JM could. Something to think about for later.

“Well, I’ve done all I care to, Constable,” John said, stepping back and pulling off the nitrile gloves he’d worn. “You’re free to go. Just keep those dry, keep them covered. I’ll check them in a week.”

“Thank you, Doctor Watson.” Bellamy hopped off the back of the Rover and looked at John, smiling. “Good thing you had my six, sir.”

“Any time, Constable Bellamy. Any time.” John smiled and gave the girl a hug. “All you have to do is ask, my dear.”

“I know, sir. It’s just ... ”

“I get it, I do. Chin up, lass.” It was almost like a father pep-talking his daughter. John’s whole demeanour was ... _soft_  was really the best term Greg could come up with. There were just certain people who could tap that facet of the gifted veteran, and it was always interesting to see it unfold.

* * *

* * *

 


	13. Bittersweet Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas comes to Baker Street. It goes about as well as it can, all things considered.

* * *

* * *

Time passed and soon Christmas was upon them. Sherlock and Mycroft were both bullied into visiting their parents in Esher for Christmas Day, Sherlock was debating the effort it would take to talk his way out of Christmas obligations when his mother called on such business. He just happened to be at The Penthouse when that phone-call came, keeping company with JM and enjoying a moment of peace. They were out on the balcony with John and Seb, sharing a cigarette, when they were distracted by his phone going off. It was a phone call, not a text message, and he grumbled about stupid people who couldn’t bother to mind their own fucking business as he dug it out of his pocket.

“Oh.”

“Mm?” JM peeked over his arm. “Oh! It’s Mummy! Better answer that, Lock!”

“Yes, I probably should. God knows what she wants this time.” He shook his head and answered the phone before it rang to voicemail.

_“Hello, Mummy.”_

_“Billy! You answered your phone!”_ His mother sounded so shocked. _“How are you, dear? We haven’t heard from you in ages!”_

 _“I’m fine, Mummy.”_ He took a drag of the cigarette before JM stole it back. _“Been a bit busy is all.”_

 _“Oh, don’t worry about_ that _, dear! We completely understand!”_ He could just see his mother waving him off, _“We just wanted to call and wish you a Merry Christmas!”_

 _“Mummy.”_ He muttered, blushing a bit.

“What is it, Lock my love?” JM whispered, nudging him in the side.

“Mummy’s called to wish me a Happy Christmas, apparently.” He rolled his eyes.

_“Mummy, you do realize Christmas isn’t for another four days, yes?”_

_“Well, of course!”_ She sounded so pleased with herself. _“Are you with someone, Sherlock? I thought I heard voices in the background.”_

 _“Yes, Mummy. I_ am _with someone right now.”_

_“Oh, I’m so sorry I interrupted!”_

_“No, Mummy, it’s alright.”_ He looked over at John and Seb, who just smiled as they chatted together.

_“That was John’s voice you heard just now, he was talking to Seb.”_

_“Oh, how are_ they _doing?”_

_“They’re … doing alright, Mummy.”_

_“Do tell John we adore reading his blog, will you please? We just love getting the notifications that he’s updated!”_

_“You read John’s blog?”_ Sherlock was surprised to hear that, he hadn’t been aware his parents were at all computer-savvy.

_“Of course we do! It’s the only way we get reliable news about what you’re up to!”_

_“Mummy.”_

_“Yes, dear?”_

_“Please don’t.”_ He sighed and rubbed his forehead. _“I’ve had a very long day, Mummy, so if you don’t mind.”_

_“Oh, that’s alright, dear! We just wanted to see how you were doing and if we could possibly coax you into coming down for a visit over the weekend?”_

_“Come … down?”_ He coughed in surprise. Oh, no no no. He couldn’t possibly.

_“Yes! We’ll celebrate Christmas! Besides, you haven’t been home in ages! We miss you!”_

_“Mummy, I’m … quite busy. I’m very sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be able to … ouch!”_ He glared at JM, who had just stepped on his foot.

“What’d you do that for?”

“You tell your mother that you’ll be very happy to come down for Christmas Day. And you will not be coming down by yourself.”

“What?”

“I want to see your parents again, Lockie love, and Christmas is the perfect time to do it.”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinked, surprised. “Really? You’d … come down with me to Esher?”

“Absolutely! I’d love to!”

“Okay then.” He looked over at John and Seb, who just gave him that particular look they saved for when he was being kind of silly.

_“Mummy?”_

_“Yes, dear?”_

_“We’ll be down first thing on Sunday. I’m not coming by myself.”_

_“Oh, lovely! Is John coming with you?”_

_“Yes, John is coming with me, and I have … someone I really want you and Daddy to meet.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“Yes, Mummy.”_

_“What’s her name, then?”_

_“_ His _name is Jim.”_ Sherlock cleared his throat. And held the phone away when the carrying on started.

 _“Oh, Sherlock! That’s lovely, we can’t wait to meet him!”_ His mother said as soon as she had calmed down enough to put coherent words together, _“Tell me, tell me, how did you two meet?”_

_“I met him through Molly Hooper over at Saint Bart’s.”_

_“Oh, that’s just lovely! Oh, we can’t_ wait _to meet him! And is John bringing Seb?”_

_“Yes, Mummy. John is bringing his partner. I think you’ll like Seb alright, Mummy.”_

_“Oh, Billy, I am so happy for you! I can’t tell you how thrilled I am! You sound so happy! We’ll see you on Sunday, my dear! Be safe, will you please?”_

_“Of course, Mummy.”_ He knew why she was so concerned and smiled.

 _“_ _I don’t think you have to worry, I guarantee either John or Seb will be driving on Sunday and they’ve got the kind of experience that most civilians don’t. We’ll get home safely, I promise.”_

_“Wonderful! Call us when you’re on your way down, won’t you please?”_

_“Of course, Mummy. Jim and I will see you on Sunday, then?”_

_“Absolutely!”_

_“Alright.”_ Sherlock smiled. _“Goodbye, Mummy.”_

_“Oh, goodbye, Sherlock! I’m so glad I called!”_

_“So am I, Mummy. See you soon.”_ Sherlock hung up with his mother, felt sorry for his father having to put up with the carrying on, and thought to send his father a conciliatory text-message to apologize.

**Sorry about the fuss with Mummy. See you on Sunday? – SH**

 

**What on earth did you say to her? She’s not making any sense at all! – DH**

 

**I may have mentioned that I’ll be bringing company with me on Sunday. Someone special I want you to meet. – SH**

**Don’t worry, John is coming with. I know how much you’ve been wanting to meet him. – SH**

 

**Oh, well then! See you on Sunday, son! We’ll make a proper celebration of things! – DH**

 

Sherlock smiled as he rolled his eyes. Trust his parents to seize the opportunity.

“Well, I think Mummy is excited, don’t you?” JM chuckled, amused as ever by what he got to listen in on eavesdropping on Sherlock’s phone-calls with his parents. “What’d you think she’ll do when she figures it out?”

“I’ll give her ten minutes to work it out. She’ll be so thrilled, and so very upset with Mycroft.”

“As she should be! It’s all his fault anyway.”

“Yes, yes it certainly is!”

“Jesus, you two are disgusting.” Seb muttered, “Would you quit it?”

“Fuck off, Seb.”

“Be nice, boys.” John scolded, chuckling. “So, I finally get to meet your parents, Sherlock?”

“Yes, you do.”

“Excellent.” John smiled, looking rather pleased with himself. “So, I have a bit of a readership it seems.”

“It seems.” Sherlock shrugged. It was inevitable that John would eventually have a reason to meet Sherlock’s parents, but he hadn’t expected it so soon. What had happened ten years ago would never happen again, and now he had John Watson and Sebastian Moran on hand to make damn certain no one tried to interfere with his personal happiness because a job was more important than family.

 

*******

 

Four days came and passed quietly enough for Baker Street and their respective partners, and Baker Street was decorated for the season thanks to the efforts of Mrs Hudson, John, and Seb. Fairy lights were strung up around the window frame of the flat and inside, the living room was festooned with Christmas decorations and cards. Someone had put a Santa hat on Billy the Skull and there were bits of mistletoe hung over every doorway. Come Christmas Eve, the flat was a lively place as friends gathered to celebrate the holiday together.

 

Sherlock was entertaining everyone, playing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” on his violin as he paced around the sitting room. Mrs Hudson sat in his chair with a glass in her hand, watching him happily. Her K9 Teddy lay at her feet, observing everything and everyone. Lestrade stood at the entrance to the kitchen holding a wine glass, and John – wearing a very snazzy Christmassy jumper – crossed the room with a cup and saucer in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. As Sherlock finished the tune with a fancy flourish, Lestrade whistled in appreciation.

“Lovely! Sherlock, that was lovely!” Mrs Hudson said cheerfully.

“Marvellous!” John just smiled as Sherlock sketched a small bow to his audience.

“Oh, I wish you could have worn the antlers!” Mrs Hudson, apparently a little bit squiffy, giggled up at him.

“Some things are best left to the imagination, Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

Mrs H.” John scolded, handing her the cup of tea in an attempt to sober her up. Seb emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray containing mince pies and slices of cake and offered it to Sherlock.

“No thank you, Seb,” Sherlock said politely, shaking his head. Undaunted, Seb offered it to the rest of them. The sound of footsteps on the landing heralded a new arrival. Sherlock looked across to the door as Molly Hooper walked in, smiling shyly and carrying two bags which appeared to be full of presents.

“Oh, dear Lord.”

“Sherlock, be nice.” John scolded.

“Hello, everyone.” Molly chirped as John went to greet her, smiling, “Sorry, hello. Er, it said on the door just to come up.” She was bundled up against the weather, cheeks pinkened from the cold, but she was in very good spirits. Everyone greeted her gladly, Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

“Oh, everybody’s saying hullo to each other.” He said offhandedly. “How wonderful!” Smiling at him nervously, Molly started to take her coat and scarf off.

“Here, Molly.” John stood ready to take her coat. “Let me, er ... Holy Mary!” He trailed off as Molly revealed that she was wearing a very attractive black dress, quite proper for the holiday season.

“Wow!” Lestrade remarked in similar appreciation. Not that Sherlock really blamed them, he was glad to see Molly and happier still to see her in flattering clothes. He may not have any interest beyond being friends with the girl, but she _was_ very pretty.

“Having a Christmas drinkies, then?” Molly asked cheerfully as John went to hang her coat for her.

“No stopping them, apparently,” Sherlock remarked as he sat down at the dining table.

“It’s the one day of the year where the boys have to be nice to me, so it’s almost worth it!” Mrs Hudson remarked, giving Sherlock a stern look. He wasn’t really paying attention as he typed on John’s laptop for a bit. Molly giggled as she watched Sherlock, she seemed to do that a lot. John brought a chair over for her.

“Have a seat, Molly.”

“Oh, thank you, John!”

“John?” Sherlock called over his shoulder.

“Mmm?”

“Come here, will you?” He didn’t look away from the screen. John excused himself to Molly and came to see what Sherlock wanted him for. He heard Greg ask Molly if she wanted a drink, and Molly accepted as John leaned over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“What’s up?”

“The counter on your blog: still says one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five.”

“Ooh, no!” John said in mock anger. “Christmas is cancelled!”

“And you’ve got a photograph of me wearing that hat!” Sherlock pointed to the sidebar which had one of the press pictures of him in his deerstalker.

“People like the hat.”

“No they don’t,” Sherlock complained. “What people?” He continued looking at the laptop as John walked away.

“How’s the hip?” Molly asked of Mrs Hudson, making conversation.

“Ooh, it’s atrocious, but thanks for asking.”

“I’ve seen much worse, but then I do post-mortems.” There was a beat of silence. “Oh, God. Sorry.”

“Don’t make jokes, Molly.” Sherlock chided from his perch.

“No. Sorry.” She blushed, flustered. Mrs Hudson just patted her on the hand and told her it was alright. Lestrade handed her a glass of red wine.

“Thank you. I wasn’t expecting to see you. I thought you were gonna be in Dorset for Christmas.

“That’s first thing in the morning, me and the wife. We’re back together. It’s all sorted.”

“She’s sleeping with a P.E. teacher,” Sherlock said without looking up from the computer. “Has been for three months, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Christ, you’re terrible!” John said quietly, exasperated. “Timing, Sherlock?”

“And John. I hear you’re off to your sister’s, is that right?”

“Yeah. That’s the plan, anyway.”

“Sherlock was complaining.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows indignantly and Molly corrected herself. “ ... saying.”

“Apparently, she’s cleaned up her act. She’s off the booze.”

“No, she’s not.”

“Shut up, Sherlock.” John snapped. “Take a day off.”

“Shut up and have a drink.” Lestrade set a glass down near Sherlock, giving him a sharp look. But before he could come up with a retort, the moment was ruined by the sound of an orgasmic sigh. Everyone looked for the source of the noise, and Molly gasped in shock.

“No! That wasn’t ... I – I didn’t ... ” She stammered when Greg looked at her, his eyes wide.

“No, it was me,” Sherlock said bluntly.

“My God, really?!”

“What?!” Molly stared at him.

“My phone.” He reached into his jacket pocket to get the phone.

“Fifty-seven?” John narrows his eyes.

“Sorry, what?”

“Fifty-seven of those texts – the ones I’ve heard.” He said as Sherlock looked at the message which simply read:

 

**Mantelpiece**

 

“Thrilling that you’ve been counting.” He said brusquely as he went to the mantelpiece and picked up a small box wrapped in blood-red paper and tied with black rope-like string. The colour was suspiciously familiar to him.

“’ Scuse me.” He walked toward the kitchen.

“What – what’s up, Sherlock?” John asked, rightfully concerned by his attitude.

“I said excuse me.” He snapped.

“D’you ever reply?” John called after him. Ignoring him, Sherlock walked into his bedroom, sat on the bed and opened the box. Inside was Irene Adler’s camera phone. He took it out of the box and looked at it closely. There could only be one reason this phone was back in Baker Street, and it wasn’t good. It also meant he had to call his brother, and he _really_ didn’t feel like talking to Mycroft right now. But he did, he dialled his brother’s phone number and waited for it to ring through. It rang twice before Mycroft bothered to answer, which meant he wasn’t busy tonight. Good.

 _“Oh dear Lord. We’re not going to have Christmas phone calls now, are we?”_ The annoyance in his brother’s voice was refreshing, but not enough to lift his spirits. _“Have they passed a new law?”_

 _“I think you’re going to find Irene Adler tonight.”_ He said, looking up as he heard a soft shuffle. John had come to the door of the bedroom and stood there listening to the conversation. Sherlock couldn’t see him, but he knew John was there.

_“We already know where she is. As you were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters.”_

_“No, I mean you’re going to find her dead.”_ Hanging up the phone, he stood up and walked towards the bedroom door.

“You okay?” John asked carefully.

“Yes.” He said tersely as he pushed the door closed, shutting John out. He was missing Jim terribly, and couldn’t actually remember why they weren’t spending Christmas together this year. Seb was already here, but if they’d said anything, he couldn’t remember.

 

Forty-five minutes later, Sherlock and Mycroft met Molly in the morgue at Saint Bart’s. She had changed into trousers and a Christmassy jumper since the last he’d seen her at Baker Street and wore her lab coat open over her clothes. A body was laid on a table covered with a sheet.

“You didn’t need to come in, Molly.” Sherlock looked at Molly, who just shrugged.

“That’s okay. Everyone else was busy with ... Christmas. This is work. The Work, I think?” She gestured at the body, trying to hide her embarrassment.

“The only one that fitted the description,” Mycroft said to Sherlock, who studied the sheet-covered figure curiously. “Had her brought here – your home from home.”

“The face is a bit, sort of, bashed up, so it might be a bit difficult.” Molly pulled down the sheet to reveal the face.

“That’s her, isn’t it?” Mycroft inquired.

“Show me the rest of her.” Sherlock looked at Molly. Grimacing, Molly walked along the side of the table, pulling back the sheet as she went. Sherlock looked along the length of the body once, then turned and started to walk away.

“That’s her.”

“Thank you, Miss Hooper,” Mycroft said as Sherlock walked away. He didn’t hear what Mycroft said, he didn’t care. Mycroft found him standing in the corridor outside, looking out of the window. Walking up behind him, he held a cigarette over his shoulder.

“Just the one.”

“Why?” He looked over at his brother, eyes narrow. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be feeling, but this wasn’t grief. He _knew_ what that felt like, this wasn’t that at all, it was something else.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Smoking indoors – isn’t there one of those ... one of those law things?” Sherlock took the cigarette as his brother dug into his coat pocket to find a lighter.

“We’re in a morgue.” Mycroft lit the cigarette for him. “There’s only so much damage you can do.” Sherlock took a deep pull, blowing the smoke out slowly.

“How did you know she was dead?” Mycroft asked, legitimately curious.

“She had an item in her possession, one she said her life depended on.” He took another drag on his cigarette. “She chose to give it up.”

“Where is this item now?” Mycroft wanted to know.

Sherlock looked round at the sound of sobbing. A family of three people stood on the other side of the doors at the end of the corridor, huddled together and clearly grieving the death of someone close to them. Sherlock and his brother turned to look at the family.

“Look at them. They all care so much.” Sherlock watched them carefully. “Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?”

“All lives end. All hearts are broken.” Mycroft looked round at him, uttering those hateful words. “Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.” Sherlock blew out another lungful of smoke, using it to cover his deeper reaction to Mycroft’s tactless mantra.

“This is low tar.” He muttered, looking down at the cigarette in disgust.

“Well, you barely knew her.”

“Huh!” He walked away down the corridor. “Merry Christmas, Mycroft.”

“And a happy New Year,” Mycroft called after him. “See you tomorrow?”

“Whether I want to or not.” He returned gruffly.

“Sherlock, it’s Christmas.” Mycroft chided. “You _promised_.”

“Yes, I did. And I _am_ going, first thing tomorrow. I promised Mummy, and I will not disappoint her.” He didn’t see his brother making a phone call as he walked away.

 

As Sherlock continued down the corridor, flicking the ash from his cigarette onto the floor, a phone rang in Baker Street.

 _“He’s on his way.”_ The caller said as soon as the call was answered. _“Have you found anything?”_

 _“No.”_ John had answered Mycroft’s phone call, he was still in the flat with Mrs Hudson and Seb. _“Did he take the cigarette?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Shit.”_ He looked round to Mrs Hudson.

“He’s coming. Ten minutes.”

“There’s nothing in the bedroom.”

 _“Looks like he’s clean. We’ve tried all the usual places.”_ John turned back to the phone. _“Are you sure tonight’s a danger night?”_

_“No, but then I never am. You have to stay with him, John.”_

_“What if I’ve got plans?”_ He didn’t, but Mycroft didn’t have to know that.

 _“No.”_ Mycroft hung up on him then, no warning.

 _“Mycroft. M... ”_ The line went dead. Chewing the inside of his mouth, he went to where Seb sat on the sofa and sat down beside him.

“I am really sorry.”

“For what?” Seb just looked at him.

“Dunno, most of my girlfriends would have ditched on me by now.”

“I am not your ex-girlfriends. I’m _not_ going anywhere.”

“Are you sure?” He sighed, rubbing his hands together, “You really don’t have to stay with me, Seb.”

“I just helped you sweep this entire flat for drugs. Where on earth do you think I’m going tonight, John?” Seb squeezed his hand and got up, fetching his phone. “Let me call JM, we need reinforcements.” John looked at Mrs Hudson, who just shook her head. All they could do now was wait.

 

John was sitting in his chair reading a book when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock came up the stairs and stopped in the doorway of the living room.

“Oh, hi.” John looked round at him. “You okay?” Sherlock stood there, his eyes roaming all around the living room, marking John’s location and Seb’s. Mrs Hudson had gone to bed, so she wasn’t around. He continued to scan the room for a long moment, then turned and walked through the kitchen, heading for his bedroom.

“Hope you didn’t mess up my sock index this time.” He said brusquely. His bedroom door slammed shut a minute later. John put down his book and sighed heavily. The uneasy quiet was disturbed about fifteen minutes later, but this was a welcome interruption. John raised his head at a commotion downstairs and footsteps running up the stairs, skipping the squeaky risers. The door banged open as JM, dusted with snow and rosy-cheeked from the cold, appeared.

“Good thing you finally made a showing, JM.” John said quietly, getting to his feet as JM closed the door behind him.

“Where is he?”

“Bedroom. He’s in a foul mood.” He took JM’s coat and scarf and hung them up. “Maybe you can do something with him, he’s not talking to any of us.”

“Let me handle this one, Misha.” JM smiled sadly, “Sorry I missed the party.”

“Didn’t miss much, but we sure would have loved to have you.”

“Well, goodnight, lads.” JM headed for the back bedroom, and that was that. They waited until they heard the door close, and it was very quiet in the sitting-room.

“Well, that’s it then.” Seb got up, “Come on, John. It’s been a long night.”

“Could’ve gone worse, could’ve gone a hell of a lot better.” John took Seb’s hand and they retired for the evening.

 

Despite the news about Irene Adler’s apparent death, John has his reservations about the legitimacy of that intelligence, it was a quiet night on Baker Street. They set off for the Holmes residence in Esher in the late morning, after eating breakfast and packing overnight bags. John and Seb, to no one’s great surprise, packed their kits and were both wearing their familiar uniforms. It was an old habit and with the likes of Sherlock and JM to look after, far better too safe than distressingly sorry. That had happened once already, they weren’t looking for a repeat performance.

 

Mrs Hudson was there to see them off and told them to have a good time and be very careful.

“Don’t worry, Mrs Hudson, we’ll keep the boys safe enough,” Seb promised.

“Good! If you happen to see your scoundrel of a brother while you’re away for the weekend, do give him my regards.” Mrs Hudson smiled menacingly and the boys all shared a knowing look.

“We will, Mrs Hudson. You’ll be in good hands while we’re gone, though.” John said calmly as he reached down to give Teddy a fuss before they left. “You keep the house safe, Teddy, alright? You and Bellamy, you’re in charge of Mrs Hudson while we’re gone.”

“Oh, Rachel is such a lovely girl! I feel terrible for monopolizing her time like that, but she never complains!” Which they all four knew was a blatant lie. Neither party in question minded one bit about how much of Constable Bellamy’s time Mrs Hudson was monopolizing.

 

As they left the house to get on the road, they were not surprised at all to see Bellamy’s car pull into the second of two parking-slots dedicated to Baker Street. The first was occupied this morning by the modified Land Rover that John drove on the days they didn’t take the Jaguar.

“Good morning, Rachel!” Mrs Hudson called out cheerfully as Bellamy emerged from her car. “Early start today, my dear?”

“Good morning, Mrs Hudson! Reliable intel came my way that you were going to need a bit of company until tomorrow or later?”

“If you don’t mind giving me a bit more of your time, dear!”

“I never mind giving you a bit more of my time, Mrs Hudson!” Bellamy smiled brightly as she set her bowler hat into place, “You’re my favourite assignment!”

“I think Mrs Hudson is _everyone’s_ favourite assignment,” JM whispered conspiratorially.

“Good morning, Constable Bellamy,” John said as he unlocked the car.

“Good morning, Captain.” Bellamy gave him a proper salute. “But, er, it’s … it’s not Constable anymore, sir.”

“Hmm?”

“You don’t have to call me that anymore, Captain.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, sir.” Bellamy brushed off her bright yellow parka and the new rank visible on her epaulettes.

“Oh, look at you!” John held her still and got a good look. “You got that promotion, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I did. Just an hour ago, sir.”

“Oh, good for you, Ray! You earned that one good and proper!” He gave Bellamy a hug, “You earned it! We’ll go celebrate properly when we’re back from Esher, then.”

“Time and place, Captain!”

“Congratulations, Sergeant Bellamy.” Sherlock smiled as he circled Bellamy, “Oh, you wear it well, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I try, Mr Holmes.” Bellamy’s eyes were bright as Sherlock praised her. He didn’t praise very many people, let alone anyone besides Greg who worked for The Met, but Sherlock had a fondness for Rachel Bellamy and it showed.

“Well, we have an appointment to keep in Esher, Sergeant, so we will leave you to your duties. See you tomorrow?”

“Of course, sir! Safe travels!” Bellamy just beamed as she shook hands with Sherlock and JM, and Seb. They waited until Bellamy and Mrs Hudson had gone back inside before setting off for Esher.

 

John did the driving, he nearly always did, and it was a quiet, uninteresting drive from London to Esher. At least, it was until John caught a glimpse of lights in his rearview and looked over his shoulder.

“Is that Greg?”

“Looks like it.” Seb turned to get a look, “Better pull over.”

“Well, this ought to be interesting.” He looked at Sherlock as they waited for Greg to make his appearance. “What are you willing to bet that your brother’s behind this?”

“I can’t begin to imagine what he could possibly want with us.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and rolled down the window as he lit a cigarette. John looked at Seb and snickered.

“Oh, here we go,” Seb muttered. “Man of the hour and he does _not_ look happy.”

“Does he ever?”

“Hush.” Sherlock scolded, looking quite at his ease as Greg came up alongside and tapped on John’s window.

“Morning, Greg.” John gave Greg a friendly smile. “Everything alright?”

“Got a bit of a hangover from last night, and  could have done without Pat being such a bitch about things when I got home, but ... could be worse.” Greg shook his head, as if trying to forget whatever he had gotten home to find waiting for him.

“Well, where are you boys off to?”

“Esher,” Sherlock answered. “For Christmas. Mummy and Daddy managed to talk me into paying them a visit.”

“Oh, that’s right!” Greg smiled, “That explains quite a bit about Mycroft’s mood recently!”

“Oh?”

“I might be seeing you boys again sooner than later. I was on my way just now to go pick up Mycroft and “escort” him to his parents’ place in Esher, but I sure wasn’t expecting to run into you lot going the same way!”

“Don’t tell him we’re all going down?”

“I won’t tell him a fucking word, Sherlock.” Greg promised, “How long have I been in on this little affair of yours anyway?”

“Since about October.”

“And I’m not about to break your confidence. You lads get on to Esher and I’ll see you in a bit. Be safe?”

“Absolutely! John’s driving, we’ll be just fine!”

“Y’know, John, it wasn’t until I caught you driving this thing that I realized you could drive at all.” Greg gave John a look as he leaned against the side of the car.

“My experience doesn’t transfer very well to small civilian vehicles, and neither does my PTSD telling me that every bit of roadside rubbish is an IED.” He said as if that explained away his reason for not driving more often.

“Well, that’s understandable.” Greg rolled his eyes, “I’ll let you boys get back on the road, then, and see you in a few.”

“Alright. Thanks, Greg, see you in Esher.” John shook Greg’s hand and waited until he had returned to his car before pulling back onto the road.

“I wonder how _he_ got dragged into this mess.” John wondered as they watched the silver BMW pull out and do a u-turn, heading back the other direction.

“So much for Christmas in Dorset,” Seb muttered, and they all chuckled.

“You know, that’s kind of _your_ fault, Sherlock.”

“I doubt he minds too much. He was deluding himself, I was just saving him the trouble.”

“Well, don’t do that again, alright?” John scolded.

“Yes, John.”

“Lockie love, be nice,” JM said soothingly. “It’s Christmas, after all.”

“I _hate_ Christmas,” Sherlock said petulantly.

“Somebody’s a Grinch.” Seb raised an eyebrow. “Has he always been like that?”

“No, this is a recent development.” Sherlock was on his phone, probably solving cold cases faster than it took to blink. “You can thank my brother for my disdain for the holiday.”

“We _know_ why you hate Christmas, Sherlock, but you have a chance to look forward to Christmas again.” John looked in the rear-view, “The past cannot be changed. The future is yet in your power.”

“What?”

“Something I heard once. No idea who said it or when, or why, but it kind of stuck with me.” He shrugged, “Kind of silly, but I think you’re getting too stuck on what happened the last time you spent Christmas with your parents.”

“Can you blame me?”

“No, but I guarantee that _nothing_ is going to happen that Seb and I can’t handle.” John looked over his shoulder, “I promise. You don’t have to be nice to your brother, but I want you to stop worrying about things going wrong like they did last time.”

“I can’t help it, John. I’ve _tried_.”

“Vic, can you work with him?”

“I’ll see what I can do, Captain.” JM smiled and took Sherlock’s hand in his. “I have something in mind that might just do the trick.”

“After you then.” John just looked at Seb and sighed. Sometimes, dealing with Sherlock was easy, sometimes it was damn near impossible, but having JM in the equation made things quite a bit less trying and Sherlock tended to be in a better mood when his boyfriend was around.

* * *

* * *


	14. Welcome Miracles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Day in Esher. Nothing unusual about that, except that this is a Holmes Family Christmas. And the Holmeses are quite exceptional.

* * *

* * *

Evelyn Holmes heard a car in the drive as she stood in her dining room making final preparations for their expected guests. Who, if she wasn’t much mistaken, should be arriving at any moment. Looking out the bay window, she glimpsed a black Land Rover pulling into the drive. Knowing one of her sons had finally arrived, she straightened up in excitement.

“Oh! Oh, Carlton!” She called out, “They’re here!”

“I can see them, my dear!” Her husband returned with a chuckle, footsteps passing along the hall to open the front door. Content to leave her preparations for the moment, she watched as the car’s passengers emerged.

“Oh it’s _Billy_!” She nearly screamed. And sure enough, she recognized the tall, lanky figure of her middle son, Sherlock. As promised, he had not come alone. Evelyn recognized all but one of her son’s companions, a tall, lean fellow with blond hair cut close and high. The other two were familiar enough to Evelyn. She was not a stupid woman by any means, and if this is what it seemed on its face, she had cross words for her son Mycroft. But those words could very well wait, she had far better things to do with her time just momentarily.

 

Rushing to the door, she stepped from the house to welcome her loved ones home for the first time in what been the longest ten years of recent memory.

“Victor!” She cried, flinging her both arms around the wiry, dark-haired man at her son’s side, taking all of them by surprise.

“Mummy.” The man caught his balance, his composure, and returned her willing embrace. “Oh, Mummy. I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be! You’re here, you’re alive, and you are _always_ going to be family!” She stepped back to look the man up and down. It was Victor Trevor as she had not seen him in a decade, but she could never mistake him for someone else. There was no one else in the world who had such beautiful brown eyes, or such a shy, charming smile. She smiled and touched the unshaven cheek.

“Oh, my dear Victor.”

“Hello, Mummy.”

“Sherlock Holmes, you scoundrel!” Evelyn turned to Sherlock next and gave her son a look before she gave him a hug. “You look well, my love.”

“We’re sorry, Mummy. I guess we should know better than to try to fool you and Daddy.”

“I have words for that brother of yours, but those can wait.” Evelyn looked at the fatigue-clad pair standing quietly by the car. “Why don’t you introduce me to your handsome friends?”

“Of course, Mummy.” Sherlock turned to the pair in question. “I know you’ve been eager to meet John Watson at the very least.”

“And it’s lovely to finally meet you, Captain Watson!” Evelyn recognized the shorter blond on sight, “Welcome!”

“Likewise, Mrs Holmes. Thank you for having us.” Watson, ever polite, offered his hand, but Evelyn was having none of that.

“Oh, no you don’t! I’m going to hug you and you will let me!” She gave him a once-over and hugged him tightly. She knew the look and bearing of a military man, and she would be damned if these two weren’t veterans. “Thank you, Captain.”

“For what, ma’am?”

“Looking after my Sherlock for me.” She stepped back and looked at the quiet, gifted medic her son had befriended. “It is so wonderful to finally meet you properly, we adore reading your blog.”

“That’s what Sherlock said. I’m glad you enjoy it.” The look Watson gave her son was telling, a smug “I told you so” kind of look.

“And who is your partner, Captain?” Evelyn asked of the fourth of their number, the one she hadn’t recognized. “This must be Seb?”

“Yes, ma’am. Sebastian Moran, late of Her Majesty’s Royal Army. Former Fusiliers.” Watson looked at his taller partner. “We served together in Afghanistan.”

“Ah! Capital!” Carlton brightened up. “Which regiment were you boys, then?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Daddy! Let the boys get inside first, and _then_ you can pester them.”

“Well, come on, boys!” Carlton hollered from the front door. 

Evelyn rolled her eyes at her excitable husband and kissed the boys, shooing them inside. Watson and Moran collected and stacked their luggage, Sherlock took one bag and Victor took the other, leaving the other two a pair of drop-bags and their overnight bags. Evelyn glimpsed a kennel in the boot of their car and knew they were dog people. Of course, they were dog people! She would be terribly surprised if they didn’t have a security team or two with K9s.

“Seb, can you and John grab the gift for Mummy and Daddy?” Sherlock called as he held the door for Victor.

“We’ve got it, Sherlock! Be up in a minute!” Watson waved to show they’d understood.

“Oh, Sherlock, you didn’t have to _bring_ us anything!” Evelyn shook her head as her son disappeared upstairs with Victor one step behind him. “You brought yourselves, what more could we _ask_ for?”

“It’s _my_ gift, Mummy. To you and Daddy.” Victor looked over his shoulder with that shy smile of his. “Just a little something for you.”

“Oh, Victor, you didn’t!” Evelyn smiled and rolled her eyes. The boys vanished with a chuckle and Evelyn shook her head. A little something? Indeed. The last time he’d said those very same words had been at Mother’s Day 2000, when he had presented Evelyn with a three-month-old kitten, a beautiful little British Shorthair with Dilute Calico markings and the prettiest blue eyes. Evelyn had named the cat Nora, and Nora now ruled the household.

 

After finishing in the dining room, she went into the kitchen, where she found her husband leaning against the worktop by the range, a glass of mulled wine in one hand.

“Oh, Carlton.” She scolded, not terribly upset to find him already drinking at three in the afternoon.

“Boys have something in mind?”

“Mm.” She nudged her husband aside and checked on the different components of the meal. Everything would be ready by the time the rest of them showed, and Evelyn was _fairly_ certain she would be seeing all three of her sons today if not the younger two. It was far easier to convince Sherlock or Benjamin to come visit than it was Mycroft, but it had always been like that. She heard the boys moving around, but she knew better than to look. When the sliding doors leading to the back garden were opened, she just looked at her husband, who grinned and raised his glass.

“Happy Christmas, my darling.”

“It’s a very happy one, isn’t it?” Evelyn smiled and kissed Carlton on the cheek. “My sons are coming home for Christmas, and dear Sherlock has found his happiness again.”

“Do you really think Mycroft will show?”

“Yes, but only because he isn’t being given a choice in the matter.”

“Oh? Did Benji say something to him?”

“And Sherlock.”

“Of course they did.” Her husband wrinkled his nose, his eyes sparkling with mischief. The moment was interrupted as Victor poked his head in, grinning like an eager child, and informed them that if they would kindly step into the sitting-room, they could see their gift.

“Oh, Victor, you sweet boy, _you_ are the Christmas present I wanted this year.” Evelyn scolded, kissing her son’s boyfriend on the cheek. “Anything else is a bonus.”

“Oh, I did see Nora slinking about here. Proper queen of the household, that one!” Victor chuckled, “She may not be very fond of what I’ve brought you this year.”

“Oh, she could use a good bother, she’s become too complacent,” Carlton said cheerfully, tagging along behind as they made their way to the sitting-room. Sherlock was standing by the fireplace, Watson and Moran stood side-by-side near the tree, in what Evelyn recalled was known as Parade Rest in the military. Oh, if they weren’t soldiers through and through! Carlton was going to love them. Victor told her to stop where she was and wait.

“What are you planning this time, you sneaky boy?”                                   

“You’ll see! Now, no peeking!” Victor gave her a bright-eyed wink and went around behind her.

“You, too, Daddy.” Wondering what on earth he was up to, Evelyn closed her eyes as he covered them and knew her husband closed his eyes as well. There was a soft shuffle and they were allowed to look. Evelyn wasn’t sure what she had expected from Sherlock’s boyfriend, but knowing his fondness for somewhat extravagant if practical gifts, perhaps the dog she spotted sitting quietly between Watson and Moran wasn’t such a surprise after all.

“Oh, Victor!”

“He’s for you.”

“He’s beautiful! What breed?”

“German Shepherd with a bit of something else. We’re not quite sure what it is, but he’s very well behaved.” Victor tugged on her hand, “Come sit down and you can say hello.”

“Does he have a name?”

“No, we thought we’d let you name him,” Sherlock said as Evelyn sat down. A moment later, Watson brought the dog over on its lead, and the careful training was obvious.

“Oh, he’s wonderful! Hello, you beautiful boy!” She smiled as she held out both hands to the eager young dog. “How old is he?”

“Five months. Completely house-broken, leery of strangers but could give a pence of care about other animals.”

“Cats?”

“Doesn’t seem bothered by them at all. He’ll inspect, but he won’t engage.”

“He’s absolutely gorgeous! Look at his colour!” Evelyn had never seen a white German Shepherd before. Leery of strangers perhaps, but the dog seemed to know this was his home and Evelyn and Carlton were his masters. He was very affectionate, seemed to think himself a bit of a lapdog in fact, and she just laughed when he jumped up to sit on her lap.

“You’re too big for that, you silly animal!” Watson scolded, tugging on the lead, “Get down from there, you idiot, you’re not a lapdog!”

“He certainly thinks he is!” Evelyn shoved the dog off her lap, “You cannot sit there, I’m afraid. I have things to do!”

“He’ll just follow you wherever you go.” Victor said cheerfully, “He goes wherever Seb and Misha go, they’ve been training him up for you.”

“Thank you, boys.” Evelyn smiled as she got to her feet again. One of the timers was sounding off in the kitchen, so it was time to go do another inspection.

“Happy to, ma’am.” Watson let the dog off the lead as she headed for the kitchen, brushing a bit of dog-hair from her clothes. And just as Victor had said he would, the dog was right on her heels. And promptly underfoot, of course.

“Oh, you’re as bad as Nora! Out, with you!” She scolded, pointing, “Over there, if you want to stay.” The dog went about three feet and stopped, looking at her so forlornly she laughed at him.

“Your eyes are the wrong colour to try that trick on me, you silly thing. What am I going to name you, then?” Evelyn just smiled. She went about her business in the kitchen, things were going along well. At this rate, dinner would be laid on right as Mycroft and Benjamin got in. Which was rather perfect timing.

“Oh, none of that noise, you.” She looked over at her dog as he whined. “What? I do not feed scavengers.” Which was very much a lie.

“Oh, you are a sneaky thing, aren’t you? How did you get all the way back over here, then? Hmm?” She raised an eyebrow, for the dog had quietly snuck up again and was sitting right by her feet. “Oh, very well. Here, this will have to do until we can get you properly looked after.” She broke off a piece of the roast that was in the oven and set it aside to cool a bit.

“I’m afraid Victor and Sherlock would be rather cross with me for feeding you food meant to be eaten by humans, so we’ll just keep this between ourselves, hmm?” She tossed the sliver of meat to her dog and smiled when he caught it. “What am I going to name you? And what on earth will I do with you? You’re a handsome fellow, aren’t you? A bit more affectionate than most Germans. And I’ve worked with my share of them, you know? So has Daddy, he might be the one who takes over your training.” 

 

It wasn’t long before Carlton came through to get drinks for the boys and found her hard at work, the dog laying by her feet with his eyes fixed on the door to the kitchen.

“You work too hard, my dear.” He said quietly as she went about her business.

“You always say that.”

“And you never slow down.” Carlton smiled as he poured drinks for the boys. “I think Billy gets that from you, my dear.”

“It’s not the _only_ thing he gets from me, is it?” She turned and gave him a smile as he handed her a glass of claret.

“I’m afraid not, my dear. But I didn’t marry you because you were like every other girl in the ranks.”

“I should hope not!” Evelyn rolled her eyes, “Have you sweet-talked our dear veterans into sharing their stories yet?”

“Mm, not quite. Getting close, though.”

“You always could call your own from a mile away, couldn’t you?”

“Hard to miss it if you know what it looks like.” Carlton grinned and kissed her on the cheek, reaching down to give the dog a fuss before heading out with a tray of glasses. “Why don’t you two join us if you can step away?”

“Of course.”

“Have you thought up a name for this gent?”

“Mm. He’s rather sneaky, I suspect Taibhse would suit him quite well.”

“That’s a proper name, isn’t it?” Carlton chuckled as he headed back to the sitting-room.

“Well, that’s it then.” Evelyn wiped her hands on her apron and reset the timers before she left the kitchen. “Come along, Taibhse!” She didn’t get very far, however, as she was stopped by her husband, who just stood quietly in the doorway between the sitting-room and the hall. Evelyn didn’t ask, she simply observed. Watson and Moran were not visible, she suspected they had stepped out in order to give Sherlock and Victor a bit of privacy for the very clandestine, very special encounter she and her husband were now witness to.

“Oh, Carlton.” She whispered, reaching for her husband’s hand.

“Shh.” He took her hand in his and squeezed. “Just watch them.”

“Oh, finally! Oh, he’s finally asking!” Evelyn touched her cheek and swore she wouldn’t cry. She suspected she would not soon forget the heartbreaking sight of Victor Trevor down on one knee before Sherlock Holmes, asking him to marry him properly. And Sherlock in tears as he accepted. Of _course,_ he was going to say yes!

 

It was something that should have happened ten years ago and hadn’t, breaking Sherlock’s heart and sending him down a path of destructive behaviours that had taken five years to pull out of. They had a particular former sergeant of New Scotland Yard to thank for their son’s health. She still remembered the phone-call she and Carlton had received from someone naming themselves as Greg Lestrade with The Met, was he speaking to Evelyn or Carlton Holmes? Yes, he was, could they help him? He then informed them that Sherlock had been sent to Royal London Hospital for an overdose, and if they would come up to London, that would perhaps be for the best. A unique name, wasn’t it? Lestrade? Familiar to Evelyn and Carlton, and they had quickly made the decision to travel from Sherrinford Hall to London. There, they had met three people: Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade, the citizen who had discovered Sherlock and called 999, a young gentleman who simply asked that they call him Jim, and their son Mycroft, who had plenty to say on the matter and none of it good or helpful. It wasn’t the first time they had been forced to reprimand their eldest son for tactless, improper behaviour, and far from the last.

“Evy?” Carlton whispered, “Come on out of your head, my love.”

“Oh, Cal, I’m sorry.” Evelyn shook her head and looked in on the boys, “I did it again, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did it again. But don’t worry about the past anymore, my love.” Carlton just smiled and gave her a push. “Go see the boys.” Touching her cheeks with her apron, Evelyn stepped into the sitting-room and carefully interrupted the boys.

“Oh, Mummy!”

“Thank you, my loves.” She hugged them both, tightly, “Oh, thank you, Victor! May I see the ring you gave him?”

“Of course, Mummy!” Sherlock was a proper emotional mess, as he should be. They showed her a beautiful, simple, band of gold. An Irish Claddagh ring with interlocked infinity symbols that played off the Claddagh detailing perfectly. Victor wore the same ring with a pair of diamonds.

“Oh, boys, I am _so_ happy for you! This is so wonderful!” Evelyn kissed them both, “Oh, thank you, boys! After all these years!”

“I’m sorry it took us so long, Mummy,” Victor said softly, holding Sherlock’s hand in his as Sherlock did his best to get himself under control.

“That is _not_ your fault! You asked the important questions and you both had the same answer! I am so happy for you both!” She just smiled and dried her cheeks on her apron, shaking her head.

“Now, where on _earth_ did John and Sebastian get themselves off to?”

“Guarding the house,” Victor said as he and Sherlock sat down together. “It may be Christmas, but good luck getting those two to take a day off.”

“Once a soldier, always.” Evelyn smiled and went to look for the other two, “Oh, I know the type, boys!” The boys just traded a puzzled glance while Carlton chuckled. He knew exactly what she was about.

“Mummy only went on a date with me because I was in the military, you see.” He explained upon hesitant inquiry. “Army, for me.”

“You were?”

“I was, it was ages ago. Long before we had children, of course.” She didn’t have to be in the same room to know what kind of expression her husband was wearing. “I wasn’t quite, er, suited to the lifestyle, but Billy and Myc knew all my old mates.”

“Well,  _that_ explains everything.”

 “She was an aide with Intelligence when we first met.”

“I did _not_ know that!”

“Well, now you know!” Carlton laughed. “It’s always something, isn’t that what you say, Billy?”

“Daddy.”

“Oh, some things will never change.” Evelyn smiled as she stepped out of the house.

 

Sure enough, she found Watson and Moran out the front. They stood on the drive by their car, side-by-side and backs to the house as they faced the street. Well, when Victor had said they were on the job, he hadn’t been joking. The boys wore matching uniforms of black or dark-blue fatigues with a red-white-gold patch on the sleeve, and black berets with a red brim and the same patch as on the uniform. They carried side-arms, she would guess either SIG-Sauer L117A1 or Browning L9A1, possibly one of each, Colt M16A2 rifles, the spare ammunition for both pistols and the rifle in four clips stowed in pouches that were all attached to the duty-belt. And, if her sense of smell did not deceive her, the boys were smoking.

“You boys aren’t _smoking_ , are you?” She hated the disgusting habit, despite her sons and her husband finding ways to sneak it past her, and she raised an eyebrow as she stood on the stoop, arms folded. The boys rapidly spun round to face her, frantically holding their hands behind their backs as they looked up at her. Guilty as charged.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“Hm.” She shook her head. “Well, just keep it out of the house, you two.”

“Yes, ma’am.” They said in unison. She gave them a stern look, then went back inside and shut the door. Evelyn did not miss the matching, startled expressions on their faces and just smiled to herself.

* * *

* * *

 


	15. Temper Of Delight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The festivities continue, and John reflects on a few things. Family is what you make of it, and his family is quite unusual. But he likes it that way.

* * *

* * *

John Watson let out a chuckle and looked at Seb Moran, who wore a rather odd expression as they both watched the house.

“That happened?”

“Mhm.”

“Okay, I didn’t imagine it?”

“Nope.” Seb cleared his throat. “Count your lucky stars, lad, I’ve seen that woman in a righteous fury and it’s a scary sight to behold.”

“You know the Holmeses?”

“I knew them before the whole mess back in 2000.”

“How?”

“Worked MI6 at the time.”

“Jesus, Seb!” John coughed, “Are you serious!”

“Swear it on my own grave if you want me to.”

“Shit!” John shook his head, “So that’s how Mycroft tagged you for the hit! You were one of his!”

“More or less.”

“Jesus Christ.” John took a drag of his cigarette and leaned his head back as he blew a cloud of smoke at the sky. That made a lot more sense. And if he’d known Mycroft, there was no doubt he’d known Mummy.

“Was, er, _she_ in MI at the time?”

“Yep. She left about the same time Sherlock overdosed in 2005, decided it was time to see to her family. Not … not that she had neglected anyone, exactly.”

“Well, shit. That’s a hell of a thing, Seb. Hell of a thing.” He dropped his cigarette on the drive and used his boot to tread out the stub. Kicking it under the car, he lit a second and offered the pack to Seb, who took two cigarettes, like he always did.

“Ta.”

“You owe me a pack, Tiger,” John muttered and gave him a light.

“And I will repay you in kind.” He said, blowing a column of smoke as the lit end of the cigarette glowed red.

“Sure you will.” John rolled his eyes. “So, Mycroft Holmes was behind the hit on his little brother’s boyfriend?”

“Yep. Family, or job security. I think you know which one he picked.” Seb just raised an eyebrow as he lit the first and tucked the second into a breast pocket. John closed his eyes for a minute.

“Bastard. I knew I didn’t like him.” He heard tyres on the road beyond the house and turned his head a bit, “Is that Greg’s car or am I hearing things?”

“Hm?” Seb looked to see and made a sound. “Yes, and no.”

“How can it be both?” John frowned, “Is it Greg or not?”

“Yes, it is a car, no, it is not _Greg’s_ car.”

“Git.” He muttered. Sure enough, the car that turned into the drive was _not_ the familiar silver BMW, but a rather beat-up Mitsubishi Shogun that had clearly seen better days. It was clearly well-cared for, but certainly not a new vehicle.

“Who is _that_?”

“Benjamin. If I _had_ to guess.” Seb shrugged and took another drag of his cigarette.

“Who’s Benjamin?”

“Well, no one really calls him that anymore. Everyone over at Section Six just calls him Q.” Seb shook his head, “I don’t know if it’s a nickname or a designation, but I haven’t heard anyone address him by his first name in a while.”

“But you’re not with MI6 anymore.”

“I may not be, but I know the important people who still are, and _they_ still like me.”

“Such as?”

“I know Bill Tanner, I know Director Mansfield, and I know a couple of their Double-Oh’s. And I know Q, as well.” Seb grinned. “There’s murmurings that he’s next in line to take over for Geoffrey Boothroyd, who’s our current Quartermaster.”

“Really?”

“Mm.”

“Well, well, aren’t you just the well-connected ex-agent!”

“I may be.” Seb flicked ash from his cigarette.

“So, what’s Q’s connect to the Holmeses?”

“Family.”

“Cousin?”

“Mm, nope.”

“Brother, then.” John watched the car and waited for the driver to show themselves. The young man who emerged looked enough like Sherlock it was clear he was family.

“Benjamin?”

“Just call him Q.” Seb murmured as another man, older than the youngest Holmes by several years, emerged from the passenger side.

“One of yours, Seb?”

“Mhm. Wonder if he got dragged home because like hell was Q showing up for Christmas by himself.”

“Word would have gotten out that Sherlock was coming home and he had company. And that’s why Greg went to pick up Mycroft in London.”

“Didn’t he say he would be down later?”

“Yes, yes he did.” John sniffed and watched as the pair just down from London approached. 

“Well, is it Christmas?” The agent at Q’s side looked at Seb and grinned. He was absolutely the sort John would have given a kidney to have on his six in Afghanistan

“Good to see you, Bond.” Seb stuck out one hand. “Happy Christmas.”

“What the hell are you doing here, Moran?”

“Marshalling the Holmes brothers.”

“How the hell did you get _that_ job?”

“My boss is dating Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh, that’s _right_!” The man snickered. “I thought I’d heard whispers of that.”

“Not just whispers, my good man.” Seb grinned, turning to Q. “Happy Christmas, Q.”

“Happy Christmas, Colonel.” The youthful Holmes shook Seb’s hand and turned next to John. “Hello, Captain Watson.”

“Hello, sir.” John smiled at the youngest sibling.

“So, you’re the one crazy enough to live with my brother.”

“Someone has to do the job.”

“God bless you. Are you two looking after Sherlock and Victor, then?”

“Yes, sir, we are. Making your eldest brother’s job a bit of a headache.” John couldn’t help a mean chuckle.

“You two had better get inside before Mummy and Daddy come out to get you,” Seb said after a while.

“She knew we were coming.”

“Means nothing.” John muttered, “Your mother is a force to be reckoned with, Q.” And he had only known the woman for maybe a few hours. Q and Bond, who apparently knew each other from working together at MI6, went into the house and left them alone to keep vigil.

“Two down, one to go,” Seb said quietly, stamping his feet to keep blood circulating.

 

It was only quiet for another half an hour before the last of their number finally arrived. Seb and John were still on the drive, watching the street from their vantage-point by Seb’s Rover.

“That’s Greg’s car.”

“Want to bet Mycroft wasn’t expecting company for Christmas?” He said as the silver BMW turn into the drive.

“What?” Seb asked mildly. “Us?”

“Not just us. Look at us.”

“Mm. You’ve got a point there, Jack.” Seb chuckled and they waited for the eldest Holmes to show himself, because he would be damned if Mycroft ended up coming down here by himself. He drew his L117A1, checking the clip and chamber as the doors of the BMW opened.

“Oh, you are cruel.” Seb murmured. John just looked slyly at his partner and winked as he racked his weapon but did not load it.

“Afternoon, gents!” Greg called cheerfully.

“Afternoon, Inspector.” They called back. John holstered his side-arm and looked up as he took the cigarette from his mouth.

“Mr Holmes.” He said, giving Mycroft a polite nod.

“Doctor Watson.” Mycroft looked genuinely confused. “What are you doing here?”

“ _We_ here on behalf of our employer, Mr Holmes.” He said calmly, enjoying this far too much.  
“Where your little brother goes, I go. And where _I_ go, Colonel Moran goes.”

“I … had heard that you had new employment.”

“Mm. Been a while since I last worked at Doctor Sawyer’s clinic, Mr Holmes. You need new people on your payroll, seems the current lot isn’t doing their jobs proper.” 

“Is my brother _here_?”

“Yes he is, sir. Inside with your parents at the moment.” Saying _nothing_ of JM’s presence. That would happen soon enough.

“Very well. Thank you, Doctor Watson.” With a brisk, uncomfortable nod, Mycroft went into the house. “Come along, Inspector. I suppose I had better introduce you to my parents.”

“Sure thing!” Greg grinned as he tagged along. “Good to see you, lads.”

“You, too, Greg.” John smiled and stuck out one hand. “Good of you to come down.”

“I had my reasons. The boys inside, then?”

“Yep.”

“Well, I guess that’s kind of a stupid question, isn’t it?” Greg looked at the house as Mycroft disappeared inside. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Mm.”

“Guess I’d better go make sure Mycroft doesn’t have an episode.”

“Yeah, that’d probably be for the best.” John and Seb looked at each other. “We’ll join.”

“Couldn’t hurt any.” Greg’s eyes fairly sparkled with mirth as they headed into the house together, hard on Mycroft’s heels.

“What in God’s name are _you_ doing here!”

“Oh, look at that,” Seb muttered as Mycroft’s outburst at finding JM in the sitting-room reached them.

“Shh.” John hushed his partner.

“Oh, Mycie! You did make it down!” Mummy, ignorant of her son’s disposition, rose to her feet and gave him a hug. But Mycroft paid no attention, his entire focus was on JM.

“Mummy, why is _he_ here?”

“Oh, stop it, Mycie!” She scolded, giving him a stern look.

“Don’t you _touch_ him, Mycroft.” Sherlock snarled, putting himself between his brother and his fiancé. “Don’t you dare!”

“And if you’re not going to be nice to your brother or his fiancé, then you can just go right back to London and stay for all we care for your bad temper.”

“Victor?” He remained still, studying JM with guarded curiosity. Greg, John, and Seb just observed, fully prepared to intervene if necessary. But John didn’t think intervention would be required.

“Hello, Mycroft.”

“How … how did you survive?”

“I had help.”

“Moran.” It wasn’t a question. Mycroft looked over at John and Seb. “You returned to Northern Ireland right after the job.”

“Yes, sir. As we agreed.”

“And none of us ever asked. You gave us a body and we sent you on your merry way.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve been looking after Mr Moriarty for us?”

“Yes, sir. Trying to, at any rate.” The dirty look he gave JM was amusing. John snickered as JM just blew Seb a kiss.

“Bless you for your efforts, Colonel.” Mycroft’s expression softened and he shook his head. Taibhse inserted himself into the equation, putting himself physically between Mycroft and Sherlock, who likewise stood between Mycroft and JM.

“Oh, and who is this?” Mycroft asked, intrigued by the wary white Shepherd.

“This is Taibhse,” Sherlock said carefully. “He belongs to Mummy, he was Victor’s Christmas present to her this year.”

“What does Queen Nora think of him?”

“She could honestly care less about him,” JM said, moving to stand beside Sherlock instead of behind him. “They’ve been introduced and she didn’t make much of him.”

“Nora may not have made much of him, but he is certainly making a great deal of _me_.” Mycroft held out one hand, palm up to show that his hand was empty, and waited for Taibhse to make the next move.

 

There was a bit of a stand-off between man and dog, but after a moment, Taibhse took the initiative and closed the small distance between himself and the tall, loud man who had yelled at his former master. He pushed his nose into Mycroft’s outstretched hand and allowed a brief bit of fuss before he retreated to Mummy’s side again. John wasn’t the only one to let out a sigh of relief. A timer in the kitchen went off, disrupting the moment, and Mummy rushed away.

“Boys! Sit down in the dining room!” She hollered from the kitchen.

“Yes, ma’am.” They broke up and headed for the dining-room, but John grabbed Seb and detoured.

“Come on, we’ll help plate and serve.”

“After you, then.” Seb smiled and they headed into the kitchen.

“What can we do to help, Mummy?” John said, “Give us orders.”

“Oh, hello, boys!” She looked at them and beamed, “Here, Seb, you can carry this. John, love, can you take this for me?” She handed them each a serving-dish and sent them out to the dining room. Setting down his load, John went back for another and between the two of them they set down serving-dishes for a Christmas Roast, a potato dish, a casserole of some sort, and a plate of smoked salmon. Daddy refilled everyone’s glasses and once they were all seated, Mummy insisted on a brief moment of silence to give thanks. She had a great deal to be thankful for this Christmas.

 

The meal was quiet and lively, conversation kept neutral, jobs were discussed and sensitive topics brushed off with a wry grin and “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that’s classified above your clearance.” At one point, Mycroft set down his wine-glass and looked across the table at JM and Sherlock, who sat shoulder-to-shoulder and had been flirting with each other all through dinner.

“So, Mr Moriarty.”

“Mm?”

“Are we to become in-laws with the New Year?”

“Oh. Well,” JM looked at Sherlock, “we don’t have anything planned yet. But, yes.”

“And when can we expect the happy announcement?”

“As soon as we get all of the necessary papers together and give notice,” Sherlock said, glancing at JM, who just smiled at him.

“Everyone at this table will be there, of course.” JM declared as he took Sherlock’s hand, his whole focus on the tall man sitting beside him. Mummy and Daddy just looked very pleased with themselves at the prospect of at least one of their sons getting married. John smiled to himself. Knowing those two, it would be something small, quiet, and private. And really, that was fine. No doubt he and Seb would be called on to attend, either as guests or witnesses, and it went without saying that Mummy and Daddy would be there. John suspected Mycroft might even make a showing, and he’d be damned if Greg didn’t put in the effort to show up. After all, he had every right to be involved, seeing as he’d been part of things for so long.

 “Good luck to you, Colonel.” Bond said blithely, raising his glass. “You’re going to need it.”

“Oh, James!” Mummy scolded, “Don’t be that way!”

“It’s alright, Mummy. He means well.” Seb grinned, “But I’ve been at this job for ten years, what’s a few more looking after both of ‘em? Besides, it’s not like I’m doing it solo, anyway.”

“Oh?”

“I go where Sherlock goes, and Seb goes where I go,” John said, taking a sip of his drink. “And since Sherlock is going with Victor, the rest is easy.”

“Good man.” Daddy nodded sagely. “Keep that one close, Billy, he's one of a kind. Good man, he is.”  

“I’m nothing special, sir.”

“Nonsense. I know a man’s character, son, and you’re one of the good ones.” A dismissive shake of the greying head. “My son is the luckiest man in England to have a friend like you in his circle, and I think he knows it.”

“John is the kind of friend I didn’t expect to have, and he stays,” Sherlock gave John a particular look, “I never questioned my good luck with him.”

“Well, of course, I stay.” John looked at Sherlock and smiled. “I keep telling you, somebody’s gotta keep you out of trouble and since Vic’s not about to do the job, it’s up to me.” Greg snickered into his whiskey and rolled his eyes. He would know exactly what kind of trouble John and Sherlock were up against, he was usually there when they got into it.

As the conversation moved on to other subjects, John didn’t miss how Mummy looked so very pleased, but not smug. She was genuinely happy, and he had a pretty good idea why. All she wanted was for her sons to be happy, especially Sherlock, and from the way things had turned out, she had gotten that wish. John just had to make sure nothing interfered with Sherlock’s happiness. And he would, not out of obligation but out of loyalty and love. The year behind them had certainly been one for the record books, he was curious to see what the coming year might have in store, while at the same time he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

* * *

* * *

 


	16. Malady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the newest developments in the Adler scandal over Christmas, Baker Street is a quiet, rather grim place. That changes rather abruptly.

* * *

* * *

After celebrating Christmas with the Holmes family, which was definitely one of the more memorable Christmases any of them could remember, the residents of Baker Street returned to London and to their established routine. But there was a marked difference in the atmosphere of the flat, a strange kind of affecting heaviness. John couldn’t tell if it was grief or apathy, and he wasn’t certain he really wanted to know one way or the other. He was used to Sherlock’s quirks and shifting, brisk moods, but this was out of the ordinary even for Sherlock.

 

One morning, John found Sherlock standing at the left-hand window with his back to the living room and playing a sad lament on his violin. John walks into the room and sighs at the sight of him. Mrs Hudson walked across to the table and picked up the plates, looking at John pointedly. Sherlock hadn’t touched his breakfast. John hummed resignedly as he took his coat from the back of his chair. Sherlock stopped playing and picked up a pencil to make a notation on a piece of sheet music.

“Lovely tune, Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson said. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

“You composing?” John inquired, even though he knew damn well what Sherlock was doing.

“Helps me to think.” He turned back to the window, lifted the violin to his shoulder and began to play the same tune again.

“What are you thinking about?” It was always risky to ask Sherlock what he was thinking, especially when he was in this mood. Sherlock suddenly spun around and put down the violin.

“The counter on your blog is still stuck at one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five.” He pointed at John’s laptop.

“Yeah, it’s faulty.” John shrugged and put his coat on, “Can’t seem to fix it.”

“Faulty – or you’ve been hacked and it’s a message.” Sherlock took out Adler’s phone and pulled up the security lock with its “I AM ---- LOCKED” screen.

“Hmm?” He looked up from checking that he had everything as Sherlock typed “1895” into the phone. The phone beeped warningly and a message came up reading:

 

**WRONG PASSCODE. 3 ATTEMPTS REMAINING**

 

The enthusiasm in his eyes died again.

“Just faulty.” He turned away and picked up his violin again.

“It’s four attempts before it locks you out or burns the drive, Sherlock.” John pointed out, “Be  careful with that.”

“I know, John.” Sherlock began to play the sad tune once more. “It was worth a shot, wasn’t it?”

“Right. Well, I’m going out for a bit.” He picked up his keys from the side-table. Sherlock didn’t respond. John turned and walked to the kitchen where Mrs Hudson was tidying up.

“I’ve never seen him like this,” John whispered, looking over his shoulder at Sherlock.

“He’s Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson shook her head a bit. “How will we  _ever_  know what goes on in that funny old head?”

“Right.” John smiled sadly. “See ya.” He headed down the stairs. Mrs Hudson looked at Sherlock playing his violin at the window and then left the room, following John.

 

Downstairs, Mrs Hudson returned to her flat and John walked out the front door and pulled it closed. As he turned to go to the left, he was distracted by someone calling out to him.

“John?”

“Yeah.” He stops and turns around to see a woman standing just to the right of the flat. “Oh. Hello.” She was very pretty and her body language suggestive, flirtatious even. The kind of woman he would definitely go after if he was single. Unfortunately, she was barking up the wrong tree.

“Any plans for tonight?” She asked, giving him a charming smile.

“Er, sorry.” John chuckled and shook his head.

“Oh, that’s a shame.” The woman pouted and looked over her shoulder towards the road. “Well, I had to try.” John followed her gaze and sighed in exasperation when a black car pulled up and stopped beside them.

“You know, Mycroft could just  _phone_  me, if he didn’t have this bloody stupid power complex.”

“After you, then?” The attractive woman held the door for him. Knowing it wouldn’t do any good to put up a fight about it, John looked over his shoulder at the windows of Baker Street. He couldn’t see Sherlock but he would be damned if Sherlock wasn’t watching. They got into the car and it pulled away from Baker Street.

 

John had no idea where they were going, but he knew better than to ask.  So when the car pulled up and stopped, John wasn’t terribly surprised to find himself in the abandoned hulk of Battersea Power Station. The attractive dark-haired woman just led the way through the building.

“Y’know, Sherlock doesn’t follow me  _everywhere_ ,” John commented, wondering who was behind this little escapade. The woman kept walking, typing away on her phone, then stopped. John stopped as well and stayed quiet.

“Through there.” She gestured ahead of herself, indicating a nearby doorway. John gave her a look, then walked on. The woman turned and headed back the way she came, lifted her phone to her ear. John lingered just out of sight, eavesdropping on her conversation.

“He’s on his way.”  She said, completely unaware that John was listening in, she couldn’t see him. “You were right – he thinks it’s Mycroft.”

“Thought as much.” He muttered, looking around. Well, he would play this game, but not by their rules this time. Making up his mind, John kept going until he reached a large room. He started talking straightaway even though he couldn’t yet see anybody.

“He’s writing sad music; doesn’t eat; barely talks – only to correct the television.” He walked further into the room as a figure began to step out of the shadows at the other end. “I’d say he was heartbroken but, er, well, he’s Sherlock. He does all that anyw... ” He trailed off as Irene Adler stepped into view.

“Hello, Doctor Watson.” She said in that familiar, sultry voice. She stopped some distance away from him and he simply stared at her for a moment before he finally found the words to speak his mind.

“Tell him you’re alive.” He said quietly, almost pleading. He refused to outright beg, not after all the trouble she’d caused them.

“He’d come after me.” Adler shook her head.

“ _I’ll_  come after you if you don’t.” He said sternly.

“Mmm, I believe you.”

“You were dead on a slab.” He said more loudly. “It was  _definitely_  you.”

“DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep.”

“And I bet you know the record-keeper.”

“I know what he likes, and I needed to disappear.”

“Then how come  _I_  can see you, and I don’t even want to?”

“Look, I made a mistake,” Irene said, looking at him intently. “I sent something to Sherlock for safe-keeping and now I need it back, so I need your help.”

“No.”

“It’s for his own safety.”

“Bullshit. If Sherlock’s life was in danger,  _I_ would know.” John narrowed his eyes, “So cut the act and tell him you’re alive.”

“I can’t.”

“Fine.” He snarled. “ _I’ll_  tell him, and I still won’t help you.” He turned and started to walk away.

“What do I say?”

“What do you  _normally_  say?” John turned on her. “You’ve texted him a  _lot._ ”

“Just the usual stuff.”

“There is no ‘usual’ in this case.”He snapped, furious with her cavalier attitude. “What. Have. You. Said?”

 ““Good morning”; “I like your funny hat”; “I’m sad tonight. Let’s have dinner” ... ” Irene read back messages she had sent to Sherlock. John looked at her, startled.

“ ... “You looked sexy on ‘Crimewatch.’ Let’s have dinner”; “I’m not hungry, let’s have dinner”.”

“You ...  _flirted_  with Sherlock Holmes?!” John stared at her in disbelief. Lord was  _she_ barking up the wrong tree! Sherlock was absolutely gay, and he had a boyfriend!

“ _At_  him.” She corrected, still looking at her phone. “He never replies.”

 “No, Sherlock  _always_  replies – to  _everything_. He’s Mr Punchline.” John said harshly. “He will outlive God trying to have the last word.”

“Does that make me special?”

“ ... I don’t know. Maybe.” No, it didn’t make her  _special_ , it made her petty and arrogant.

“Are you jealous?”

“For the record – if anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually gay.”

“Well, I  _am_. Look at us both.”

“Tell him you’re alive or  _I_ will!” ~~~~

“Fine. There, I told him.” She held up her phone to show John the screen, although he was too far away to read it. She told him what she had typed anyway: “I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner.” Irene pressed the “Send” button, smug and irritating. John turned away momentarily. A familiar orgasmic female sigh could be heard a short distance away. Sound travelled remarkably well in the abandoned building, and John knew that sound. John started to walk in the direction of the sound but Irene held out her hand to stop him. She looked at him pointedly.

“We’re not a couple.”

“Yes, you are.”

“He’s dating someone, did you know that?” John said, fed up with people treating him like an idiot. “He’s dating Jim Moriarty.”

“He’s what?” Adler blinked at him.

“I  _really_ don’t like having to repeat myself. He’s. Dating. Jim Moriarty.” John snapped. “How’s that? Does that answer your fucking question?”

“He’s dating ... ”

“Jim Moriarty. You’ve had your fun, Miss Adler.” He said curtly. “Next time you mess with Sherlock Holmes is going to be the last time. Good day to you.” Turning on his heel, he walked away from Adler. He was fairly certain his point had been made, but with the likes of Irene Adler, he couldn’t be absolutely sure.

“Oh, and I’ll find my own way back to Baker Street, Miss Adler, thank you.” He called over his shoulder as he left her standing there. He would  _walk_ back to Baker Street at this rate, it might do him some good.

 

On high alert and in a rather foul mood, John was not surprised to return to Baker Street to find the front door unlocked and a handwritten note attached to the door that read: “Crime In Progress. Please Disturb”. He ran upstairs and hurried into the living room.

“What’s going on?” He inquired as he let himself in, but stopped at the sight of a familiar face in the flat. It was Neilson, the American CIA officer they had encountered in September, bound and gagged with duct tape and sitting on the chair near the fireplace. His nose had been broken and blood had run down his face, dripping from his chin. Mrs Hudson was sitting on the sofa and Sherlock in a chair nearby, holding Neilson’s pistol aimed at him with one hand, and his phone to his ear with the other.

“What the hell is happening, Sherlock?” John asked of his flatmate.

“Mrs Hudson’s been attacked by an American,” Sherlock said bluntly. “I’m restoring balance to the universe.” John immediately hurried over to sit down next to Mrs Hudson. Sherlock could handle himself, he suspected.

“Oh, Mrs Hudson, my God. Are you all right?” He glared at Neilson as he put his arm around her shoulders. “Jesus, what have they done to you?”

“Oh, I’m just being so silly.” Mrs Hudson broke down in tears again, covering her face with her hands.

“No, no.” He soothed as he pulled her closer. Sherlock got to his feet, still holding the phone to his ear while aiming the gun at Neilson.

“Downstairs.” He said to John, giving an order. “Take her downstairs and look after her.” John nodded as he stood up first and turned to help Mrs Hudson to her feet.

“All right, it’s all right.” He said gently. “I’ll have a look at that.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” She objected tearfully but didn’t put up much of a fight. As she walked out of the room, John stepped over to Sherlock, whose eyes were fixed on Neilson.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?” He asked softly.

“I expect so.”  Sherlock gave him a significant look. “Now go.” They looked at each other for a moment, then turned their gazes to Neilson and he had two murderous expressions fixed on him.

 

John turned to leave the room but just before he completely turned away, a small smile began to form on his face. He maintained eye-contact with Neilson as if he wanted the man to understand that he was about to encounter a whole world of hurt. John may not be present for it, but a broken nose really was the least of his troubles now. The phone call was picked up as John walked away. He hesitated just out of line of sight and eavesdropped.

_“Lestrade. We’ve had a break-in at Baker Street. Send your least irritating officers and an ambulance.”_  Sherlock finally took his eyes off Neilson as he walked across to the dining table and laid the pistol down. Neilson looked rightfully nervous while Sherlock listened to Lestrade’s question.

_“Oh, no-no-no-no-no, we’re fine. No, it’s the, uh, it’s the burglar. He’s got himself rather badly injured.”_  He looked over his shoulder at Neilson.  _“Oh, a few broken ribs, fractured skull ... suspected punctured lung. He fell out of a window.”_  Still looking into Neilson’s eyes, he hung up. John smirked and headed downstairs quietly. This would not be a boring wait.

 

Some short time later, Sherlock had seen the ambulance on its way and given Lestrade a suitable answer. But they had some company, Seb had shown up with a bodyguard around the same time The Met had and stuck around. It was not company any of them minded, and Teddy was just beside himself, having been locked out of the house for most of the commotion. Sherlock certainly didn’t mind having some of JM’s people on location, the extra security was very useful right now. After making sure Mrs Hudson was alright for the night, the boys went back upstairs. John fixed himself a drink in the kitchen and then came into the living room where Sherlock was taking off his coat.

“Where is it now?” He asked.

“Where no-one will look.” Walking across to the window, he picked up his violin and turned his back to the room.

“Whatever’s on that phone is more than just pictures.”

“Yes, it is.” He tinkered with his violin and checked its tuning. John watched him for a moment.

“So, she’s alive then. How are we feeling about that?” He ventured. In the distance, Big Ben began to toll the hour. Sherlock pulled in a sharp breath.

“Happy New Year, John.”

“Do you think you’ll be seeing her again?” John asked, despite the lack of communication between himself and Sherlock. Turning around but not yet meeting his eyes, Sherlock picked up his bow and flipped it in the air before catching it and then he started to play “Auld Lang Syne,” looking pointedly at John. John got the message and sat down in his chair while Sherlock turned back to the window and continued to play.

“We need to do something,” John said quietly, looking over at Seb, who sat at the kitchen table cleaning their pistols.

“Let me call JM, we need reinforcements.” Fetching his phone to call JM, Seb closed the door between the kitchen and the sitting room.

 

Thirty minutes later, there was a commotion downstairs and footsteps running up the stairs, skipping the squeaky risers. The door opened and Jim, rosy-cheeked from the cold, appeared.

“Good thing you finally made a showing, Vic.” John said quietly, getting up from his chair.

“How is he?”

“He’s in a foul mood.” He took JM’s coat and scarf and hung them up. “Maybe you can do something with him, he’s not talking to any of us.”

“Let me handle this one, Misha.” JM smiled sadly, “Sorry I missed the excitement.”

“Didn’t miss much, but we sure would have loved to have you.” John collected his own coat and made sure he had everything. He could leave Sherlock with JM, so he did. Seb, getting the hint that they were no longer needed, got up and the two of them departed quietly. There was always someone watching the flat, and John picked out that day’s guard-detail loitering nearby. They didn’t say anything to each other, just exchanged nods in passing as John and Seb got into the Jag and set off for Camden.

Not far away, within sight of St Paul’s Cathedral, Irene Adler was walking along the street when her phone trilled a text alert. Taking the phone from her bag and checking the message, she saw that it read:

 

**Happy New Year**

**SH**

 

She looked at the message for a long time before continuing onwards. Well, well, she’d gotten a response from the haughty Sherlock Holmes at last. This could actually be a bit of fun if she played her cards just right.

* * *

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	17. Shapes Of Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Irene Adler camera-phone scandal is coming to a close, but it's not the happy ending Adler was expecting to get.

* * *

* * *

It was calm for several weeks after their second encounter with the Americans, but it went without saying that the quiet couldn’t last forever. One afternoon, Sherlock reached the top of the stairs after returning from a few errands and stopped abruptly outside the kitchen door. He sniffed deeply. Taking a couple more deep breaths, he turned and looked into the kitchen, then walked across to the window and checked it, realising that it was open. Turning and sniffing again, he started to walk slowly towards his bedroom just as the downstairs door slammed and feet start trotting up the stairs. Reaching his room, he pushed the door open as John came into the kitchen with bags of shopping. Sherlock walked into the bedroom and turned to look down at the bed.

“Sherlock ... ” John noticed him there.

“We have a client.” He said quietly, holding one hand up to keep John from making too much noise.

“What, in your bedroom?!” He walked along the passage and into the bedroom, he stopped when he saw the bed. “Ohhh. Is that ... ?”

“Yes. It is.” Irene Adler – fully clothed – was asleep in Sherlock’s bed. She had somehow broken into the house and made herself at home. That was gutsy, and presumptuous, to assume that she would be either welcome or safe in Baker Street.

 

Some time later, Irene was sitting in his chair in the living room. The boys sat at the dining table watching her. She had showered, her hair was loose and damp and she was wearing one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns, but she didn’t seem all that troubled by whatever had driven her to seek refuge in Baker Street or the fact that she had blatantly broken _into_ the flat while they weren’t home.

“So who’s after you?” Sherlock inquired.

“People who want to kill me.”

“Who’s that?”

“Killers.” Said almost carelessly.

“It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific,” John said bluntly.

“So you faked your own death in order to get ahead of them.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the resourceful, deceitful woman.

“It worked for a while.”

“Except you let John know that you were alive, and therefore me.”

“I knew _you’d_ keep my secret.”

“ _You_ couldn’t.”

“But you _did_ , didn’t you?” She looked so satisfied with that knowledge. “Where’s my camera phone?”

“It’s not here. We’re not stupid.”

“Then what have you done with it?” She asked, trying to look unaffected. “If they’ve guessed you’ve got it, they’ll be watching you.”

“If they’ve been watching me, they’ll know that I took a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago.”

“I need it.”

“Well, we can’t just go and get it, can we?” John looked at Sherlock, inspired. “Molly Hooper. She could collect it, take it to Bart’s; then one of your homeless network could bring it here, leave it in the café, and one of the boys downstairs could bring it up the back.”

“Very good, John.” Sherlock grinned, looking right at Adler. “Excellent plan, with intelligent precautions.”

“Thank you.” He made a face. “I’m not a complete idiot, you know.”

“I never said you were, John,” Sherlock said calmly as he took the camera phone out of his jacket pocket and held it up. Sherlock looked at the phone closely as Adler stood up.

“So what do you keep on here – in general, I mean?”

“Pictures, information, anything I might find useful.”

“What, for blackmail?” He distinctly remembered having this very same discussion the first time Irene Adler’s name had come to their attention and they had called on her Belgravia residence.

“For protection. I make my way in the world; I misbehave.” She said with a shrug, “I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be.”

“So how do you acquire this information?”

“I told you – I misbehave.”

“But you’ve acquired something that’s more danger than protection.” Sherlock glanced at the headstrong woman. “Do you know what it is?”

“Yes, but I don’t understand it.”

“I assumed. Show me.” Irene held out her hand for the phone. Sherlock held it up out of her reach. “The passcode.” She continued to hold her hand out, and eventually, Sherlock sat forward and handed her the phone. Activating it and holding it so he couldn’t see the screen or the keypad, she typed in four characters. The phone beeped warningly.

“It’s not working.”

“No, because it’s a duplicate that I had made, into which you’ve just entered the numbers one oh five eight.” He stood up and took the phone from her as he walked over to his chair in which she had been sitting and retrieved the real camera phone from under the cushion.

“I assumed you’d choose something more specific than that but, um, thanks anyway.” He pulled up the “I AM ---- LOCKED” screen and typed “1058” into the phone. He looked at her smugly but then the phone beeped warningly and a message came up reading:

 

**WRONG PASSCODE. 1 ATTEMPT REMAINING.**

 

He stared in disbelief. How? Unless ...

“I _told_ you that camera phone was my life. I know when it’s in my hand.”

“Oh, you’re rather good.”

“You’re not so bad.” She held out her hand again and took the phone from him. “There was a man – a MOD official. I knew what he liked.” Walking a short distance away from the boys so they couldn’t see her screen or keypad, she typed in a passcode and called up a photo.

“One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn’t know it, but I photographed it.” She handed the phone to Sherlock. “He was a bit tied up at the time. It’s a bit small on that screen – can you read it?”

 

Sherlock sat down on the other side of the table to John and narrowed his eyes at the photograph. The top of the email – possibly the subject line – read:

 

**_007 Confirmed allocation_ **

 

Underneath in smaller print was a string of numbers:

 

**_4C12C45F13E13G60A60B61F34G34J60D12H33K34K_ **

 

“Yes.”

“A code, obviously. I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it – though he was mostly upside down, as I recall. Couldn’t figure it out.” As if it was no difference to her either way. Sherlock leaned forward, concentrating on the screen.

“What can _you_ do, Mr Holmes?” Adler leaned over his shoulder, “Go on. Impress a girl.”

 

Time seemed to slow down as she began to lean towards him. Oblivious to her approach, the numbers in the code raced through Sherlock’s mind and began to form into shapes for him. Opposite him, John had taken a drink of tea and lowered his mug towards the table. It all seemed to happen in slow motion. By the time the mug reached the table and Irene had leaned in and kissed Sherlock’s cheek, he had already solved it. His eyes drifted momentarily in her direction as she pulled back smiling, but then he concentrated on the screen again.

“There’s a margin for error but I’m pretty sure there’s a Seven Forty-Seven leaving Heathrow tomorrow at six thirty in the evening for Baltimore.” He spoke rapidly, “Apparently it’s going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true but give me a moment; I’ve only been on the case for eight seconds.” He looked at John’s blank face in front of him, then glanced round at Irene who hadn’t even fully straightened up yet.

“Oh, come on. It’s not code. These are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look ... ” He showed the screen to John. “There’s no letter ‘I’ because it can be mistaken for a ‘1’; no letters past ‘K’ – the width of the plane is the limit. The numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place – families and couples sitting together. Only a Jumbo is wide enough to need the letter ‘K’ or rows past fifty-five, which is why there’s always an upstairs. There’s a row thirteen, which eliminates the more superstitious airlines.

Then there’s the style of the flight number – zero zero seven – that eliminates a few more; and assuming a British point of origin, which would be logical considering the original source of the information and assuming from the increased pressure on you lately that the crisis is imminent, the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the six thirty to Baltimore tomorrow evening from Heathrow Airport.” By now he had stood up, and he lowered the phone and looked down at Irene, who gazed up at him in admiration.

“Please don’t feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing.” He said dismissively. “John’s expressed the same thought in every possible variant available to the English language.”

“I would have you right here on this desk until you begged for mercy twice,” Adler said airily. The two of them stared at each other for a long moment before Sherlock spoke again.

“John, please can you check those flight schedules; see if I’m right?” He didn’t break eye-contact with Adler even as he gave that order.

“Uh-huh. I’m on it, yeah.” Clearing his throat, John started to type on his laptop. Sherlock and Adler continued to stare at each other.

“I’ve never begged for mercy in my life.”

“Twice.” Adler corrected emphatically.

“Uh, yeah, you’re right.” John found a match to the information he’d been given. “Uh, flight double oh seven.”

“What did you say?” Sherlock looked ‘round at him.

“You’re right.”

“No, no, no, after that.” Sherlock ventured closer to his seat. “What did you say after that?”

“Double-oh seven,” John repeated carefully. “Just like you said. Flight double-oh seven.”

“Double-oh seven, double-oh seven, double-oh seven, double-oh seven ... ” He spoke quietly to himself now. Pushing Irene out of the way, he began to pace.

“ ... something ... something connected to double-oh seven ... What?”

As he continued to pace and mutter to himself, Irene put her other phone behind her back and began to type blind on it:

**747 TOMORROW 6:30PM HEATHROW**

 

The message was sent to the phone of Jim Moriarty, but the boys didn’t know that. Sherlock walked to the fireplace and stood in front of the mirror with his eyes closed.

“Double-oh seven, double-oh seven, what, what, something, _what_?” He quietly muttered to himself. His eyes snapped open as he began to remember and he turned and looked at the living room door, remembering Mycroft standing on the landing talking into his phone.

_“_ _Bond Air is go.”_

Sherlock walked towards the door, the words repeating over and over in his head.

 _“Bond Air is go. ... Bond Air is go._ ”

*******

At Westminster, very near the Houses of Parliament, Jim Moriarty had just received a message to his phone. He took out his phone and read the message:

 

**747 TOMORROW 6:30PM HEATHROW**

 

 He raised an eyebrow but showed no other emotion as he typed a message onto his phone:

 

**Get your brother involved ASAP. This ends here. – V**

 

He pressed “Send” and the message winged its way up into the air. Then he quickly sent another message to a different number: 

 

**Re: Bond Air. Coventry lot. Call at Baker Street to discuss.**

****

As if watching them go, Jim raised his eyes towards Big Ben, the very image of the seat of the British government, and blew a kiss at it. Once those text messages were on their way, he erased the message he had received from Irene Adler. He wasn’t playing that game anymore, but she would only find out the hard way. Let her think she’d won, let her think that she’d put the lives of billions of people at stake because she had apparently bested the Holmes Brothers. He would see her put in her place once and for all. She had been warned, and she had ignored that warning, on several occasions. Time to play hardball.

*******

In a different part of London, Mycroft Holmes had just received a text message. He picked up his phone from the dining table and looked at the newly arrived message. It read:

**Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway.**

He had no intention of pandering to his little brother, and was about to set his phone aside when another message came, this one from a different number:

 

**Re: Bond Air. Coventry lot. Call at Baker Street to discuss.**

****

After a few moments, Mycroft returned to the chair at the end of the dining table and sank down into it, running his hand over his face, shocked by the turn of events and the hint of coming trouble. But he couldn’t sit still. Getting up, he paced a bit, removed his jacket, and paced some more. Then he fetched a glass of brandy and set in front of him at the table as he sat down again, hands folded in front of his mouth, lost in wide-eyed and horrified thought. He sat in thought for hours.

 

As night began to fall, Mycroft still sat at his table. He hadn’t moved an inch, had barely twitched at all. His expression furrowed with anguish and his eyes wide at the horror which only he knew about. The glass beside him is empty. Slowly he closes his eyes and sinks his head into his hands in despair. Someone had talked. Sensitive information had reached the wrong ears. If there was a way to stall this disaster, even by a thread, he had to find it. He had to do something.

*******

On Baker Street, Sherlock sat in his armchair gently plucking the strings of his violin. In his mind, he could still hear Mycroft’s phone call.

 _“Bond Air is go, that’s decided. Check with the Coventry lot._ ”

“Coventry.” Sherlock finally roused a little and looked up.

“I’ve never been.” A woman’s voice startled him and he looked up sharply. “Is it nice?” Irene Adler, still wearing Sherlock’s dressing gown but now fully made up and with her hair perfectly coiffured, was curled up in John’s chair watching him closely.

“Where’s John?”

“He went out a couple of hours ago.”

“I was just talking to him.”

“He _said_ you do that.” She smiled at him. “What’s Coventry got to do with anything?”

“It’s a story, probably not true. In the Second World War, the Allies knew that Coventry was going to get bombed because they’d broken the German code but they didn’t want the Germans to _know_ that they’d broken the code, so they let it happen anyway.”

“Have you ever had anyone?”

“Sorry?” Sherlock frowned at her blankly. The complete change of subject mystified him.

“And when I say “had,” I’m being indelicate.”

“I don’t understand.” He shook his head. “What are you … ?”

“Well, I’ll be delicate then.” Getting up from the chair, she walked over and knelt in front of Sherlock, putting her left hand on top of his right hand and curling her fingers around it. “Let’s have dinner.”

“Why?”

“Might be hungry.”

“I’m not.”

“Good.”

“Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn’t hungry?” Hesitantly, Sherlock sat forward a little and slowly turned his right hand over, curling his fingers around her wrist. This woman perplexed him, and not in a pleasant way.

“Oh, Mr Holmes ... ” Slowly Irene began to lean forward, her gaze fixed on his lips. “ ... if it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?” Sherlock’s fingers gently stroked across the underside of her wrist.

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson interrupted the moment and Sherlock’s eyes slid towards the door.

“Too late,” Adler said ruefully.

“That’s not the end of the world; that’s Mrs Hudson.” Who had impeccable timing. Adler pulled her hand free and stood up, walking away from him as Mrs Hudson came in with none other than his brother Mycroft.

“Sherlock, your brother is here! Is the bell still not working?” She turned around and pointed at Sherlock. “He shot it.”

“He does that sometimes.” Mycroft Holmes said, glancing at the saintly landlady. “I’m very sorry for the inconvenience, Mrs Hudson.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock smiled briefly at the kind woman, who just shrugged and went back downstairs.

 

As soon as she was out of earshot, Sherlock retreated to his chair again and looked at his brother.

“What is this about, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked bluntly once Mrs Hudson was gone. “I got both of your messages.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He had only sent Mycroft _one_ message, not two. Someone else might have, and he had a fairly good idea who it was. Get Mycroft involved ASAP, indeed.

“There’s going to be a bomb on a passenger jet. The British and American governments know about it but rather than expose the source of that information they’re going to let it happen.”

“The Coventry conundrum.”

“The wheel turns. _Nothing_ is ever new.”

“What do you think of my solution?”

“The plane will blow up. Coventry all over again.”

“The flight of the dead.”

“The plane blows up mid-air. Mission accomplished for the terrorists. Hundreds of casualties, but nobody dies.”

“Neat, don’t you think? You’ve been stumbling round the fringes of this one for ages – or were you too bored to notice the pattern?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who just smiled humourlessly.

“We ran a similar project with the Germans a while back, though I believe one of our passengers didn’t make the flight. But that’s the deceased for you – late, in every sense of the word.”

“How’s the plane going to fly?” Sherlock wondered, but the answer was obvious. “Of course: unmanned aircraft. Hardly new.”

“It _doesn’t_ fly. It will _never_ fly. This entire project is cancelled.” Mycroft said tetchily. “We’ve lost everything. One fragment of one email, and months and years of planning finished.”

“Your MOD man.”

“That’s all it takes: one lonely naïve man desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special.”

“Hmm. You should screen your defence people more carefully.”

“I’m not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock; I’m talking about _you_.” He slammed the tip of his umbrella on the floor. Sherlock frowned, genuinely confused.

“The damsel in distress.” Mycroft smiled bitterly, then quieted. “In the end, are you really so obvious? Because this was textbook: the promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption; then give him a puzzle ... and watch him dance.”

“Don’t be absurd.”     

“Absurd? How quickly did you decipher that email for her?” Mycroft challenged. “Was it the full minute, or were you really _eager_ to impress?”

“I think it was less than five seconds,” Adler spoke up from behind Sherlock. The brothers turned as one and found her standing in the doorway to the kitchen, now fully dressed. This was The Woman at her immaculate best, elegantly dressed, fully made up and with her hair perfectly coiffured as before when Sherlock had first noticed her sitting in John’s chair.

“Mr Holmes, I think we need to talk.” She said smoothly as she continued towards them, her focus on Mycroft. Sherlock watched as she activated her phone and held it up to show his brother.

“There’s more ... loads more. On this phone, I’ve got secrets, pictures and scandals that could topple your whole world.” She said smugly. “You have no idea how much havoc I can cause and exactly one way to stop me – unless you want to tell your masters that your biggest security leak is your own little brother.”

“I drove you into her path,” Mycroft said quietly as he turned his head, averting his gaze from Sherlock’s. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Sherlock didn’t say what he was thinking, that Mycroft _should_ have known better, this wasn’t the time for petty sibling feuds. Although, that really was what had started this whole mess, wasn’t it? Squabbling, jealous siblings?

“After you, gentlemen,” Adler said, indicating the dining table. It was time to talk.

 

A few minutes later found Mycroft sitting at the dining table with Irene seated opposite him. Sherlock sat in John’s chair near the fireplace a few yards away, half turned away from the pair of them. Adler had nothing to say to him, and he wasn’t interested in sitting at the table with them. The fingers on his right hand repeatedly clenched while he listened to the other two speak.

“We have people who can get into this.” Mycroft pointed at the phone which lay on the table in front of him. There was no aggression or threat in his voice as he spoke to Irene.

“I tested that theory for you. I let Sherlock Holmes try it for six months.” Irene said blithely as she looked towards Sherlock’s perch. “Sherlock, dear, tell him what you found when you X-rayed my phone.”

“There are four additional units wired inside the casing, I suspect containing acid or a small amount of explosive.” He said flatly. Mycroft lowered his head into his hand.

“Any attempt to open the casing will burn the hard drive.”

“Explosive.” She looked at Mycroft. “It’s more me.”

“Some data is always recoverable.”

“Take that risk?”

“You have a passcode to open this. I deeply regret to say we have people who can extract it from you.”

“Sherlock?” Irene said calmly, confident.

“There will be two passcodes: one to open the phone, one to burn the drive,” Sherlock said quietly. “Even under duress you can’t know which one she’s given you and there will be no point in a second attempt.”

“He’s good, isn’t he?” She gazed intensely at Sherlock but he remained turned away from her. “I should have him on a leash – in fact, I _might_.”

“We destroy this, then. _No-one_ has the information.”

“Fine. Good idea ... unless there are lives of British citizens depending on the information you’re about to burn.”

“Are there?”

“Telling you would be playing fair. I’m not playing anymore.” She reached into her handbag on the table in front of her and took out an envelope which she pushed across the table to him. “A list of my requests; and some ideas about my protection once they’re granted.” Mycroft took a sheet of paper from the envelope and started to unfold it.

“I’d say it wouldn’t blow much of a hole in the wealth of the nation – but then I’d be lying.”

“You’ve been very ... thorough.” He raised his eyebrows in amazement as he read through the demands she had listed. “I wish our lot were half as good as you.”

“I imagine you’d like to sleep on it.”

“Thank you, yes.”

“Too bad.” He looked up at her, she just looked steadily at him. “Off you pop and talk to people.” Mycroft sank back in his chair.

“How did you do it?”

“I can’t take all the credit. Had a bit of help.” Adler just smiled and leaned forward, looking over at Sherlock. “Oh, Jim Moriarty sends his love.” Sherlock raised his head but didn’t move otherwise. He had his eyes closed just at the moment, he was working over a few things in his head and it was easier to focus if he couldn’t see any distractions.

“Yes, he’s been in touch. Seems desperate for my attention ... ” Mycroft said, his voice ominous “ ... which I’m sure can be arranged.”

“I had all this stuff, never knew what to do with it. Thank God for the consultant criminal. Gave me a lot of advice about how to play the Holmes boys.” Adler continued. “Didn’t even ask for anything. I think he just likes to cause trouble. Now _that’s_ my kind of man.” Sherlock’s eyes snapped open as the puzzle he’d been working over in his head came together for him, but he didn’t move.

“And here you are, the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees.” Mycroft stood and bowed slightly to Irene. “Nicely played.” He turned away, about to go and begin meeting her demands. Smiling in satisfaction, she stood up, confident that she had won.

“No,” Sherlock said quietly. They both turned to him.

“Sorry?” Adler queried. Sherlock turned his head towards them.

“I said no. _Very_ very close, but no.” He stood and started to walk towards her. “You got carried away. The game was too elaborate. You were enjoying yourself too much.”

“No such thing as too much.”

“Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine, craving the distraction of the game – I sympathise entirely – but sentiment? Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.” He bared his teeth slightly.

“Sentiment? What are you talking about?”

“You.”

“Oh dear God. Look at the poor man. You don’t actually think I was interested in you?” She smiled calmly, not at all bothered by him. “Why? Because you’re the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?” She still thought she had the upper hand, she still thought she had won. She didn’t know what Sherlock knew, she didn’t know that she had just shown her hand in a rather careless manner.

“No.” He stepped even closer to her, their bodies almost touching. Reaching out, he wrapped the fingers of his right hand around her left wrist, then leaned forward and brought his mouth close to her right ear. “You were _jealous_.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It was all fun and games until Big Brother decided he wanted his toy back, and you weren’t having it.” He smiled, let out a mean chuckle. “ _You_ thought, well I’m not done yet, and ignored him. And ignored him. And ignored him still again.”

“That’s ridiculous! How would you know anything about jealousy? Or _sentiment_?” She sneered, but he didn’t budge. “You just can’t admit that you’ve been bested by a woman! It insults your manhood to even _think_ that you’ve been outwitted by the likes of me! I’ve won! I. Have. Won.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of yourself, Miss Adler.” They all turned in alarm at the sound of Jim’s voice and found him standing in the doorway with John and Seb flanking him one to either side. Sherlock couldn’t help but notice the way Mycroft and Adler reacted as they tried to keep their focus on the man approaching them. It was Jim Moriarty as the public knew him, suave, charming, dangerous, dressed to the nines and ready to burn the world. Or rule it, depending on his mood. And John and Seb were there to make sure no one got in the way. Mycroft looked absolutely horrified, wary of Jim’s presence in Baker Street. As if he wasn’t certain if this was a stroke of good luck or not.

“James.” Adler seemed absolutely astonished to see him. “What are you doing here?”

“My business is with you this time, dear sister. Play time’s over, Irene ... ” Jim’s voice became menacing as he started to prowl closer.

“So take this as a friendly warning, my dear.” He smiled, but it was not a friendly smile, it was a baring of teeth, “Back off.” Sherlock had a sudden moment of inspiration and picked up the camera phone from the table.

“When we first met, you told me that disguise is always a self-portrait. How true of you: the combination to your safe – your measurements; but this ... ” he tossed the phone into the air and caught it again, “ ... this is far more intimate.” He pulled up the security lock with its “I AM ---- LOCKED” screen.

“This is your heart ... ” Without breaking eye-contact, he punched in the first of the four characters with his thumb. “ … and you should _never_ let it rule your head.” She stared at him, trying to stay calm but the panic was beginning to show behind her eyes. Behind her, Jim was grinning like a fiend. Sherlock momentarily ignored him.

“You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you’ve worked for ... ” He punched in the second character, his eyes still locked on hers. “... but you just couldn’t resist it, could you?” Her breathing became heavier. Sherlock smiled briefly and triumphantly as he entered the third character. He lifted his thumb again but before he could type in the fourth character, she seized his hand and gazed up at him intensely.

“Everything I said: it’s not real.” She said, her voice a whisper, “I was just playing the game.”

“I know.” Gently pulling his hand free, he typed in the final character. “And this is just losing.”

 

Slowly he turned the phone towards her and showed her the screen. She looked down at it, tears spilling from her eyes as she read the sequence:

 

**I AM**

**SHER**

**LOCKED**

 

She gazed down at the screen in despair for a few seconds, then Sherlock lifted the phone away and held it out towards Mycroft even as the phone unlocked and showed its home screen.

“There you are, brother.” He said, never breaking eye-contact with Adler. “I hope the contents make up for any inconvenience I may have caused you tonight.”

“I’m certain they will.” Mycroft took the phone as Sherlock turned and began to walk towards the door.

“Are you expecting me to beg?” Irene stared after him, her eyes wide with dread.

“Yes.” He stopped near the door, his face in profile to her. She stared at him in anguish for several seconds, then realised that she had no choice.

“Please.”

“Hmm?” He raised an eyebrow.

“You’re right.” She finally admitted. “I won’t even last six months.”

“Then perhaps you should have thought of that before you decided to continue playing your little game with us.” He turned away and walked to the door, opening and going through it. But before he left the room, he turned and glanced over his shoulder at her. “Sorry about dinner.”

 

Irene Adler watched Sherlock Holmes go, her eyes full of horror as he disappeared down the stairs of Baker Street. Desperate, she turned to her brother, but he just shook his head.

“I told you it was dangerous to play with fire.” He turned and left the room with John Watson and Sebastian Moran behind him. “Get careless and you get burned.” She chased after him.

“No! You can’t do this!” She grabbed him by the sleeve.

“I warned you, Irene.” He pulled out of her grip and looked at her. “I warned you against toying with Sherlock Holmes. John Watson warned you against toying with Sherlock Holmes. You didn’t listen to us, and now it’s time to face the consequences.”

“Please, James!”

“What do I owe you, Irene? Hm?”

“I’m your _sister_!” She objected. “James, please!” Irene was begging in earnest now but wasn’t any use, she saw the way her brother’s expression changed, just a slight twitch of muscles.

“Oh, sweetheart, we may be family, but that doesn’t mean I owe you anything.”

“W-what are you talking about?”

“You should have died that night, Irene. I should have let you burn, but I didn’t. That was my mistake.”

Jim just looked past her to Mycroft Holmes. “If you’re feeling kind, lock her up; otherwise let her go. I doubt she’ll survive long without her protection.” He said nonchalantly. Then, he was gone, leaving Irene and Mycroft standing there trying to piece things together in a way that made any sense.

“What just happened?”

“Excellent question.” Mycroft shook his head and looked at Irene. “I think you had better come with me, Miss Adler. For your own sake.” He was right, and they both knew it. She had lost her only bargaining chip and her own brother had practically handed her over to the government. She was doomed.

* * *

* * *


	18. Difficult Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has to answer to The Powers That Be (read: M) for the mess he made out of the Coventry Gambit. It does not go well.

* * *

* * *

After seeing to the protection of Irene Adler, for whatever that was worth, Mycroft Holmes found himself in a bit of trouble. Somehow, that blasted email had gotten out, and he had _no_ idea who had seen it or into whose hands it had gone. All he knew was that they couldn’t possibly chance launching Flight 007 tomorrow evening, it was too risky. But when he returned to his secure office and found his dear little brother sitting behind his desk flanked by the same two bodyguards he’d seen earlier in Baker Street, both armed to the teeth and in no mood to play games, he swallowed a sense of rising dread.

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

“Nothing.” His brother’s smile was far from reassuring. “I just came to give you a bit of _good_ news.”

“Sherlock, please, I really am in no mood for your games.”

“Oh, I’m not playing, Dear Brother.” All affability dropped like a stone and his brother’s demeanour became almost hostile. “I saved you a massive and embarrassing scandal of international disgrace, you should _thank_ me. You still have Miss Adler’s phone, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“Are you _sure_ of that?”

“Of course I am. Why?”

“Where is it, then?”

“In my briefcase.” He sighed, wondering what his brother was getting at.

“May I see it please?”

“Why?”

“May I see it please?”

“Very well.” He set the briefcase on his desk and opened it, going to the pocket he had put the phone in before he’d left Baker Street. And discovered a serious problem. It was gone!

“Well?”

“A moment.” He said with a calm he did not feel as he looked again by touch.

“Hm. Not where you left it, Dear Brother?” 

“How did she _do_ that?”

“Irene Adler is a very clever woman.” Sherlock did not look to his left or to his right. “Captain Watson, would you and Colonel Moran do us an enormous favour and retrieve that camera phone from Miss Adler’s possession for the last time? As she is to be detained until further notice, I doubt she would put up much of a fight.”

“Of course, Mr Moriarty.” John Watson did not make eye contact as he stepped around the desk and departed the office in silence, following the other man. Mycroft was stunned by the way his brother was addressed. Moriarty?

The sound of his office door closing seemed louder than usual, and Sherlock just studied him from the other side of his desk, his expression almost … ruthless. Mycroft felt as though he were being scrutinized, and knew he was, but it was a foreign sensation and a distinctly uncomfortable one.

“Please, sit down, Mycroft,” Sherlock said placidly, his tone of voice still quite hostile, indicating one of the chairs on this side of the desk. “John and Seb are efficient, but it may take a bit of time for them to get back.” As Mycroft sat, more or less collapsing into the chair, wondering where this whole affair had gotten out of his control so completely, Sherlock produced and lit a cigarette.

“So, if all goes to plan, Windsor Airlines Flight 007 to Baltimore will depart as scheduled from Heathrow International Airport at six-thirty pm, blow up mid-flight, and no one will be the wiser.”

“Are you mad? We can’t dare let that plane off the ground!” Mycroft stared at his brother in shock. “The terrorists know! Your leak got out, Sherlock!”

“ _I_ am not the leak, Dear Brother.” Sherlock said calmly, blowing a column of smoke at the ceiling, “You can thank your morons at the MOD for that little slip. Bad form to carry sensitive emails on personal phones.”

“It … wasn’t _on_ a personal phone.”

“Are you sure about that?” Grey eyes looked steadily at him. “Oh, you said you received two text messages from me. What did the second say?”

“What?”

“The second text-message you purport came from me. What did it say?”

“I assume you sent this to me and used a burn-phone or a fake number.” Mycroft retrieved the message in question and handed the phone to his brother. Sherlock glanced at it, saw the source-number, and raised an eyebrow.

“Mm. No, that was not me. I sent you exactly _one_ text-message tonight, Mycroft.”

“Then, who … ” He took his phone back, confused.

“I don’t suppose you remember our little conclave being interrupted at Baker Street earlier?”

“Yes, of course, I remember.”

“Do you remember who it was that interrupted us?”

“What are you playing at, Sherlock?” He clenched his teeth. “People’s _lives_ are at stake!”

“Only the lives of two hundred and thirty-two people.” He would be damned if his brother didn’t just shrug that off. “But they’re already dead, so I don’t really think that counts.”

“No, Sherlock!” Mycroft corrected. “Hundred, thousands, even _billions_ of lives are at stake because _you just couldn’t help yourself_!”

“Oh, Mycroft. Don’t blame _me_.” Sherlock gave him a look that could only be pity. “I’m not the one who volunteered my little brother for a top-secret case that turned into something you couldn’t control.”

“Do not put this on my shoulders, Sherlock. I am not the one who … ”

“Oh yes, you are.” Sherlock got smoothly to his feet. “You put me on this case last September. It is now … January? I don’t think you understand just how much stake I _have_ in this case, Mycroft.”

“Is your career at stake, Sherlock? Do millions of lives depend on your next words?”

“Yes.” Sherlock looked past him as the door opened again. “But I think you will find that the chain of communication from Miss Adler stopped with a rather unlikely ally. If you want to save face and reputation, you’ll do the smart thing and let Windsor Airlines Flight 007 take off tomorrow evening as scheduled.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you underestimate the kind of connections I have that matter, Dear Brother.” Sherlock went around the desk, flicking ash from his cigarette, and took something from John Watson. It was that damnable phone.

“Thank you, John.” With a few practised swipes, he unlocked the phone and did something with it. Then, when he had what he wanted, he gave it back to Mycroft.

“I am not the one who sent you the text-message regarding the Coventry Gambit. That was someone else.” Sherlock said as he looked at the data on the phone. Everything seemed to be in order.

“How did you do that?”

“That’s my secret. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going home. See that the proper authorities are informed that those photographs have been successfully recovered, will you?”

“What photographs?”

“Miss Adler’s blackmail against Kate Middleton.” Sherlock collected his coat and scarf and looked at him. “I did my bit, Mycroft, now it’s your turn.”

“How did you … ” He looked at his brother in horror. _No one_ knew the identity of the compromised Royal!

“Did you forget already, Mycroft?”

“Forget what?”

“Harry Doyle is one of Her Majesty’s Equerries.” Sherlock just smiled at him, “Do not ever underestimate the intelligence or resourcefulness of the Watsons, Dear Brother.”

“You cannot just walk away from this, Sherlock!”

“Of course I can! And I’m going to!” Sherlock smirked as he donned that damned coat in a dramatic whirl of fabric. “See you at the Investiture, Dear Brother!”

“Sherlock Holmes, don’t you _dare_!”  

“Laters!” Sherlock chirped, gone with the slamming of the door. Mycroft stood for so long staring at the phone in his hand that he all but fainted when someone knocked on his door.

“Sir? M will see you now.” It was Anthea, and Mycroft nodded.

“Thank you, Anthea.” He let out a slow, shaky breath, and looked at the phone again. As he straightened his tie and smoothed his suit and hair, his phone buzzed and he fetched it to check his messages. Just one, from the same number that had sent him the mystery text earlier:

 

**SHER. Good luck. You’re going to need it.**

 

No name, no signature. S-H-E-R? What good was that going to do him? Stashing both phones, he picked up the relevant files and set off for the Situation Room.

 

“My apologies for the delay, ma’am.” He apologized to his immediate superior as soon as he arrived, “I was handling some … personal business.”

“Keep your personal business at home next time, Mr Holmes.” M said bluntly, “How badly have we been compromised?”

“I … to be frank, ma’am, I don’t know.” He shook his head, “My brother reassures me that we are free to go ahead with the plan for tomorrow, but I have my doubts.”

“Why?”

“Because it … it was my brother who cracked the stolen email, ma’am. He managed to decode the whole of the encoding in less than five seconds.”

“And who, exactly, was privy to this leak?”

“My brother, Doctor Watson, and … Irene Adler, ma’am. I have every reason to believe that the information was leaked to an outside entity, who would have had all the time in the world to warn our targets.”

“Who else knows, Mr Holmes?”

“James Victor Moriarty.” Christ, he hated having to admit that, having to speak that hated name.

“Moriarty?” M raised an eyebrow. “I see. And what makes you think he’s already disseminated this information?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ he, ma’am?” Mycroft shook his head, “My brother decoded that email, in front of Irene Adler. She then, apparently unknown to my brother, texted the details to Mr Moriarty.”

“Do you have _proof_ of this, Mr Holmes?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t, but I know how Moriarty thinks and operates.” He pressed both hands flat against the tabletop and lowered his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we have to call it off. We have no choice.”

“No, Mr Holmes.”

“No?” He looked up.

“No.” M shook her head, “We are not going to call off the plot just because you told us to.”

“Please, ma’am, with all respect … ”

“Where is the phone now, Mr Holmes?”

“I have it with me, ma’am.” He produced the phone and showed it to her.

“May I have the phone, please?”

“Yes, ma’am, but you’re going to need a passcode to unlock it, or all of that data is worthless.” And Sherlock would kill him if those photographs were destroyed.

“The phone, if you please,  Mr Holmes.” M simply held out one hand to him. He handed it over and let her study it.

“Hmm. All of that trouble started by the information stored on this device. I’m not sure what was a bigger downfall.”

“Ma’am?”

“If it was her certainty that the safeguards were infallible, or that she would never get caught. Or was it the certainty that if she _did_ get caught, her demands would be fulfilled because she had threatened to expose it all?”

“But she _did_ , ma’am, I’ve told you. She was in alliance with James Moriarty.”

“And yet, it was not your brother who allowed such sensitive information as the Coventry Gambit to get into the hands of a sadistic dominatrix, was it?” M activated the phone and looked at the lock-screen before entering something on the keypad. “It was already _in_ her possession by the time he came into the picture.”

“Don’t … ”

“Not a very original passcode.” M looked at him steadily, turning the phone so he could see that it had been unlocked. “I AM SHER-LOCKED? Not quite subtle, was it?”

“How did you do that?”

“A very helpful resource gave me the passcode. Said it might be useful.” M shrugged and set the phone down again. “This information has gotten no further than this room, and this room is where it will stop.”

“But … I don’t understand.”

“Your brother was here for quite some time, Mr Holmes. And he did not come alone.”

“Oh my god.”

“Now, remind me, as I tend to be a tad rusty on a few things, but Victor Trevor was your brother’s boyfriend and fiancée between 1998 and 2001?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mycroft remained standing by sheer will, his knees were locked to keep them from buckling.

“And Victor Trevor was, in fact, an alias for James Moriarty?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mycroft felt … dizzy. Where had she gotten that file? _Why_ had she gotten that file? ~~~~

“Whose full Christian name, if I am _not_ much mistaken, is James _Victor_ Moriarty? Born 21 October 1976, eldest of three children and first of two sons?” 

“Yes, ma’am.”

“In 1983, all but one of his remaining immediate family was killed in what was then ruled as an accidental house fire. His mother, grandmother, and little brother all died, but Moriarty and his sister, who was three years younger and the second of twins, survived.”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“I thought as much. Well, it seems to me that Mr Moriarty has returned from anonymity and wants to play.”

“We can’t do that, ma’am!”

“We can, we _must_ , and by God, Mr Holmes, we _will_.” M gave him a withering glance. “Windsor Airlines Flight 007 will depart as scheduled at six-thirty pm tomorrow evening, that bomb will go off as planned, and we will all move on with our lives.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Am I clear on this?”

“Transparently, ma’am.”

“Good. Now, I’m going to retain this phone and you, Mr Holmes, are going to go home. I want you to take a week’s leave and … ”

“A _week_ , ma’am?” He interrupted, stunned.

“Do not interrupt me, Mr Holmes. I want you to take a week’s leave and do a bit of soul-searching. If you _have_ one. Get your priorities straight.” M picked up that blasted phone and slid it into a clear plastic evidence-sleeve, “And don’t worry, we’ll take _very_ good care of Mr Moriarty’s little sister.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.” Mycroft knew when to pick his battles, today was definitely not that day. Better to retreat gracefully and face whatever consequences came of his actions, than fight the inevitable. There was something about this that he was missing, some small detail that he had overlooked. What _was_ it? Well, he had a week of mandatory leave ahead of him, plenty of time to reflect and look for the missing pieces.

* * *

* * *

 


End file.
